Murder Takes a Break Read Online Free PDF Page A

gray mist.   Droplets clung to my sweatshirt and stuck in my hair.   I had to wipe water off my face.
    I live on the west end of the Island, between the end of the seawall and the upscale developments, and I went a mile or so without seeing another soul before my knee began to hurt.   When I turned to go back home, a big heron lifted off a pool of water about twenty yards away and soared off into the fog without a sound, like a pterodactyl's ghost.
    Nameless was watching for me at the door when I got back.   He'd spent the night under the coffee table, and now he was ready for breakfast.   Seafood Supper didn't seem appropriate, but it was all I had.   He didn't seem to mind.
    I had shredded wheat with skim milk.   I was trying to avoid covering my belt buckle the way Tack Kirbo did.   While I ate, I listened to the news station on AM radio.   Traffic was backed up from Houston almost to Stafford by an accident on the Southwest Freeway, which was really Highway 59, though for some reason I never understood no one who lives in Houston ever calls it that.   I was glad I didn't have to drive to work in Houston every day.   For that matter, I was glad I didn't have to drive to work anywhere.
    After I finished the shredded wheat, I washed out the bowl and left it in the sink.   Nameless jumped up on the counter and leaned over to see if I'd left any water in the bowl.   I hadn't, but he licked the bowl anyway.
    "Now cut that out," I told him.   "It's not sanitary.   You might catch some disease."
    He ignored me, as usual, but when I started toward him, he jumped down and ran to the door.   I let him out so he could terrorize the geckos, which reminded me that it might be a good idea to check my cereal bowl for lizard parts that might have dribbled out of his mouth.   There didn't appear to be any, so I figured I was safe from contagion.
    I took a shower and pulled on a clean short-sleeved sweatshirt and a pair of faded jeans that I'd worn only once or twice since their last washing.   Then I gave Bob Lattner a call.

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    L attner didn't want to see me, not then, not later that morning, and, I got the distinct impression, not ever.   I finally persuaded him to talk to me by offering to buy him lunch.   I suggested the Chinese restaurant across from the police station, but he said that he preferred the drugstore, which was fine with me.   I knew which drugstore he meant.
    "Twelve o'clock?" I asked.
    "Make it eleven-thirty," he said.  
    He had a hard voice that sounded as if he'd practiced it on felons for years.   It probably didn't have any more effect on them than it had on me, however; most of them were used to harder voices than his.   So was I.
    "And good luck finding a parking spot," he added before hanging up.
    I wondered what he meant by that, and then it dawned on me:   Dickens on the Strand.   The east end of the Island would be a foot lower in the water, thanks to the weight of all the extra tourists.
    I killed the hours until eleven-thirty by doing a few background checks and by searching some of the electronic databases I had access to for any information on Randall Kirbo.   I didn't find a thing, but I wasn't disappointed.   I hadn't really expected to find anything, to tell the truth.
    At a little after eleven I got in my little blue and white Chevy S-10 truck and drove to town.   I wasn't worried about parking.   I was pretty sure I knew where there would be a few vacant spots, and I was right.  
    I parked in the police station lot.   There were cars lining the streets and parked everywhere there was anything resembling a spot for them, but no one was willing to take a chance on parking in a cop's place.   All the places in the lot were reserved for employees, and I wouldn't have parked there myself under ordinary circumstances.   But today I was willing to take a chance.
    Â  I got out of the Chevy and walked