Necessary Decisions, A Gino Cataldi Mystery Read Online Free PDF

off the wagon? Did he overdose?
    I’d been living with this nightmare for a year, though it seemed like ten. I grabbed the phone, anxious. “Hello?”
    “Gino, it’s Chief Renkin. I hope it’s not too late.”
    Chief Renkin! What the hell?
    “Not a problem, sir. What can I do for you?”
    “We have another home invasion, but this one escalated; they beat the son pretty badly.”
    “Where?”
    “Champions Forest. You live close by, don’t you?”
    “Not far at all, Chief. You think it’s the same group?”
    “It sounds like it.”
    “I assume you’ll clear this with Captain Cooper.”
    “Already done.” Renkin hesitated, as if he was going to hang up, then, “I know this doesn’t make any difference, but the Marshalls are dear friends of mine.”
    “I understand, sir.” Doesn’t make any difference, my ass.
    I grabbed my gun and headed out. Home invasions were bad enough; these people being “dear friends” of the chief compounded the situation. During the twenty-minute drive to the crime scene, I thought about my new job—Special Crimes. Sometimes I liked it, and at other times, it was a pain in the ass. Tonight would fall into the latter category.
    A few minutes later, I turned off Champion’s Forest Drive and into a circular driveway that looked as if it led to a country club. Why did the chief bother with an address? He could have just said look for the house that’s as big as a factory. The place stretched for half a block, all brick and windows, and enough rooflines to put a cathedral to shame. I rang the doorbell and waited, wondering if a nap was in order before they could answer.
    While I waited, I thought about what Marshall might look like based on what I knew—his name, and that his son played football. Damn good football, according to about every paper in Texas. A man who appeared to be in his mid-forties with signs of gray in his hair greeted me. Marshall fit everything I’d imagined. He was big, my guess was linebacker in college, and from the ring on his finger that anybody in Texas would recognize, he had played for A&M.
    “You must be Detective Cataldi.”
    His accent had me guessing he was from East Texas, maybe up by Tyler. I shook his hand. “Chief Renkin told me what happened, Mr. Marshall. How’s your son?”
    “Not good. My wife is still at the hospital. I came back to meet with you.” He stepped aside. “Come in, Detective.”
    I stepped into a marble foyer that looked half as big as the first floor of my house. It boasted a double-spiral staircase that resembled something from the Gone with the Wind era of mansions.
    Marshall led me through several rooms, all large and all decorated as if Interior Design or Architectural Digest would be there in the morning for photographs. We ended up in the kitchen, a place I could have retired in. It was the first time I felt truly comfortable since entering the house, but then again, kitchens had a way of doing that to me. They sparked images of food and good wine, although the good wine part was only in my dreams. My kitchen was stocked with cheap, or should I say, inexpensive Chianti. Anything over ten bucks a bottle had to wait for a Saturday night.
    “Would you like a glass of wine?”
    I was tempted to refuse, being on the job and knowing he was a friend of the chief, but curiosity got the better of me. “I’d love some. Thanks.”
    “What do you prefer?”
    “Whatever you have is fine, sir.”
    “I’m guessing you’re Italian by the name. How about Brunello?”
    “Brunello would be wonderful.”
    I expected him to turn to his servant or butler or whoever had been trailing us and issue an order, but he didn’t have to say anything; the guy took the cue and disappeared.
    “What happened to your head, Detective? That looks rather nasty.”
    “I got it while working undercover. It’s mostly healed.”
    Marshall sighed. “Good God, what is the world coming to?”
    I was about to say something when the butler