Nine Fingers Read Online Free PDF Page A

step gingerly outside, looking left and right.
    I turn back to the woman, squat down to her level. “A bag lady? Stocky build? Scarf on her head? Rolled-down stockings?” The
     woman nods to each of these, surprised, except the last one, saying “I couldn’t see her legs,” but can’t add anything else.
     “Does it mean anything?”
    “Did you get a look at…the face?”
    She lowers her head. Her hair is longish and a little matted, and it cascades in hanks over her eyes. I read that as a “No.”
    Two of the other detectives give each other a look, ask the room in general, “Did anyone else see this bag lady?” No one says
     anything.
    I look around the room, and the skinny guy is still squatting over in the corner. He has headphones on his head, and is staring
     at the floor. At all the electronic equipment.
    Equipment like a tape recorder.

CHAPTER 4
    Vinnie Amatucci
    Inside the 1812 Club
    Thursday, January 9
    The cops herded us together and kept asking the same questions, over and over and over. We muttered and mumbled and said what
     we could. Paul ended up doing most of the talking; he’s good at that.
    A pack of cops broke off from the herd and tiptoed out. They left in a rush and came back at a crawl.
    I started to feel cold, the wind whipping in harder off the lake and whistling in the broken window. When the cop with the
     used face got around to me, I told him the basics: Vince Amatucci, I live in Hyde Park, I have a taxi license, I play piano
     with the band. I’m also sort of the manager; I book all the gigs and tape all the sets. I had my headphones on and was trying
     to get the balance right and had my head down. Didn’t see a thing. Did I tape the shot? I don’t know, I must have…
    I crab-walked over to the Uher, rewound, pressed PLAY, focused in. I heard it, a burst like a loud cough, then stopped, rewound
     the tape a few turns, held out the headphones. The guy with the long face, the detective in charge, slipped them on, looked
     at me, nodded. I hit PLAY. I could see him following it. With what must have been the gunshot he blinked.
    I touched REWIND, let it run a bit. I hit PLAY. After he blinked again, he said, “Rewind it one more time. No, don’t play
     it. Just stop there, right before the shot.”
    He leaned back and turned to one of the uniforms. “Bag this tape and give this man a receipt. Maybe the lab can turn something
     up. And maybe all we’ll find out is how good a piano player the vic really was.”
    I started to protest, but realized he was going to let me keep the Uher, when he could have taken the whole system. Besides,
     there was something in his eyes that I couldn’t identify, something lurking at the edges. I popped the tape out and held it
     in my hand. A cop in a uniform came over with a plastic bag and opened it. I dropped the tape inside. He sealed it, took out
     a Sharpie, wrote something on it, then asked me for my name and address or a card so they could get it back to me. The detective
     with the sagging face said, “Already got it. It’s noted.”
    Then he took me by the elbow and wheeled me around to a small table. He motioned for me to sit. I did. He flipped open a notepad,
     steno size. “Mr. Amatucci, we’ve run your name on the computer—you’re clean, aside from some…‘vehicular incidents.’
     ” He paused, his left eyebrow arched. “Can you think of anyone who would have a reason to shoot you?”
    “I hear you,” I said, “I’ve seen the movie—Truffaut, wasn’t it?” He stared at me. The guy wasn’t playing along at all; he
     was making me do all the work.
    “I can’t think of anybody. I’ve had some angry customers, sure, but murder? Assassination?”
    He looked at me. “Your choice of words…What makes you say ‘assassination’?”
    I turned around, stared at Roger Something. I turned back to the cop. “Look at him.”
    He did, and soon turned back toward me. He was wearing an expression I couldn’t read, either