Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

assailant would materialize tonight, if he ever did. It was a needle
in the haystack. I'd talk to a few of the guys when they were sober and then
see if any leads developed. The focus for the rest of their evening though
would be lusting after buxom young women who would tease and tantalize and
create a few fantasies. They weren't going to be showing me anything I hadn't
seen before. Or at least so I thought.
    I slipped discreetly out of the party and rode the
chrome express down to the main floor. By comparison to the party, the lobby
was so quiet I could hear the rubbing of my shoes on the soft grey carpet. I
started to walk out into the street when the aging security guard called me
back.
    "Could you sign out for me, sir?"
    I walked back to his station and signed my name again,
directly adjacent to my signature from two hours ago. Checking my watch, I
wrote down 11:01 p.m. next to my name. As I put the pen down, the silence was
shattered by what sounded like an explosion in the street. We looked at each
other and raced outside.
    On the hood of a crumpled white Corvette lay the
battered and bloody pulp of what was once a human being. The upper torso had
landed directly on the windshield, shattering it on impact and sending shards
of glass upwards of thirty feet from the car. The legs were twisted grotesquely
and an arm dangled awkwardly to one side. The body lay face down so the
features were not visible, but I didn’t think much identification could be
garnered. One thing remained intact however and there was no mistaking it.
Maroon suede cowboy boots with little gold spurs. There was no doubt about it.
Robbie Freeman was dead.
     

Chapter
4
    The police cordoned off the area near the building's
vestibule, and the usual curiosity seekers hovered on the other side of the
barrier. An ambulance arrived and scraped what was left of Robbie off the
Corvette to take him to the County morgue for an autopsy. Knowing the local
coroner, it might take him a few minutes to determine it was too late for
surgery.
    The police directed the partygoers to remain in the
lobby until we could be questioned individually. The group had sobered up
considerably and mulled around wide-eyed and stunned. The two strippers were
now dressed in sweats and appeared to be more nervous than anything else.
Little wonder. From experience, I knew that some were hookers, some had police
records, and all wanted to simply do their thing and slip quietly back into
anonymity.
    In a corner, Norman looked stunned and a few of the guys
went over to pat him on the back and whisper a few supportive words of
sympathy. I expressed my condolences briefly, noticing the dampness on his
cheeks and the raw shock that emanated from his reddened eyes. There are few
things in life as horrible as losing a family member in a tragic and sudden
way. One moment they’re right beside you, and then they’re gone forever. Norman
will never talk to Robbie again, never joke with him, and Robbie will only
exist in Norman’s memories. As hardened as I had become through working in law
enforcement, I never lost sympathy for people forced to deal with the sudden
death of someone close. My heart went out to them. My feelings about cops
however, were another matter.
    I was interviewed last, and most of the crowd had
dissipated at that point. The investigating officer who took my statement was a
short, bulky man named Mickey Batson who seemed more interested in taking a
doughnut break than in probing my answers. He had black hair cropped short, a
weak chin and a bulbous nose. If I squinted, his face came close to resembling
that of a boar.
    "What’s your story, pal?"
    "I don’t have a story," I said, a little weary
from the long wait.
    Batson peered at me. "Oh, a tough guy. I remember
you. You were on the job. Got yourself into some trouble."
    "That’s right, Shorty," I said evenly, my
weariness suddenly being replaced with annoyance.
    "Hey look it, you get cute with me and your last
set of