Scent of Evil Read Online Free PDF Page B

hand through the tendrils of smoke.
    There was the sudden shriek of a circular handsaw ripping through plywood. Brandt motioned to the door, and I reluctantly rose and shut it against the noise, my day-long headache struggling for new heights. The police department’s previous rabbit warren of offices was being totally remodeled. Walls were coming down, work spaces redefined, lighting replaced, and central air-conditioning being put in. Unfortunately, some logistical genius had arranged to have the window air-conditioners removed before the central system had been completed, leaving us all to swelter at the peak of the summer’s heat amid the pounding of hammers, the screaming of power tools, and the continuous swirl of sawdust.
    I paused to open a window before sitting back down. Brandt made no comment. He’d been chief for the past nine years, on our force for ten years before that. Aside from Deputy Police Chief Billy Manierre and myself, he’d spent more years as a cop than any of us.
    Not that he looked the role. I’d seen a television documentary recently about the Manhattan Project. It had shown all those tweedy professor types—skinny, aquiline, and bespectacled, with thinning hair—scurrying around the New Mexican desert in search of the perfect bang, and I could have sworn I saw Tony Brandt six different times. But where rocket scientists of lore are reputed to be sloppily dressed, absent-minded, and insensitive of other people’s feelings, Brandt was neat, organized, tough as nails, and fully aware of the emotional buttons we all carry within us.
    He fixed me now with a long look, his head slightly back, the blue rectangle of his computer screen reflecting off his wire-rim glasses. “So—we found a man in a grave.”
    I spoke distinctly, to cover the noise. “Yes. We don’t know who yet. There was no wallet or ID. He’s young, looks pretty well off, and Gould says he was killed by having his blood supply cut off to the brain.” I put my thumbs against my throat to illustrate. Brandt’s frown deepened.
    “Either that or he was overdosed with something. We found a probable needle mark. Gould also thinks he was killed elsewhere, in a chair, and left there for a few hours before being moved to where we found him.”
    “And no one saw the planting.”
    “Not that we know of yet. Klesczewski’s reviewing the canvass reports. There’re a few people we missed that we’re following up on, and there’s the off chance a bum was living under the Elm Street bridge who might have seen something. I’m having people check the flophouse to see if we can get a line on him. Also, at around 3:00 a.m., one of our patrol cars was seen parked at the embankment. George Capullo says that would have been John Woll, but I haven’t been able to locate him yet.”
    There was a slight pause. Brandt’s pale gray eyes were looking out the window. A few months ago, he had requested funding from the selectmen to purchase beepers for all off-duty officers, not just the detectives and the upper ranks, as was now the case. He’d argued that both the private ambulance service in town and the Municipal Fire Department were so equipped, as were most of the surrounding area fire and rescue squads, but he’d been turned down. We would therefore have to either wait for Woll to show up for his midnight shift, or hope he just happened to wander in early.
    “There’s no obvious motive at this point,” I continued. “While the wallet and a watch seem to be missing, there was a fancy silver ring and a neck chain that would have been worth something to a thief. Plus, it sounds a little complicated for a simple robbery.”
    “So what is it?” Brandt rarely gave opinions himself. He sat as Sage on the Hill at times like these, welcoming all to divulge what they knew. Some of the younger officers found this an irritating trait and accused him of trying to look wiser than he was. I, on the other hand, took it at face value. I’d spent