Seven Ways to Die Read Online Free PDF Page A

suicide note.
    Δ
    “Before I close this series,” said N.Y.P.D. Max Wolfsheim, who had narrated this unsolved case at his regular NYU Graduate Center class on Crime in the City, “I have been given his permission to recognize our auditor, who’s faithfully attended this forensics series. He’s the author of a dozen bestselling books on famous crimes.”
    The crime writer, white-suited Ward Lee Hamilton, received a polite hand from the graduate students.
    “What will your next book be?” a brave student asked him.
    “I never discuss my next work,” Hamilton replied smugly. “Ernest Hemingway once said, ‘I’ve talked away more books over a cup of coffee than I’ve ever written.”
    At this the class again applauded.
     

3
     
    Manhattan—
    Friday, October 26, 2008
     
    Waldo Madigan stared out the window of his diner just as the jogger and his dog, a big white German Shepherd, turned onto Walker Street. He looked up at the Seth Thomas clock on the wall and shook his head.
    “There he is,” he said, half-aloud. “Right on time. Six twenty-five. Not six twenty-four, not six twenty-six. Six twenty-five on the dot. I think he waits on Church Street until it’s exactly six twenty-five before he comes around the corner. The man never wears a watch.”
    “Mornin’, Cap,” Waldo said to Cody as he unlocked the door and held it wide. The dog charged in first. “And same to you, Charley.” The big shepherd wagged his tail and sat, eagerly looking past him at the large stainless steel refrigerator.
    “Thanks, getting cold out there,” the captain said. “How’s tricks, Waldo? Still talking to yourself?”
    “I ain’t had no trick since I was seventy-five,” the big black man answered. “And most nobody else’ll talk to me.”
    Waldo opened the stainless door to the fridge and took out three hot dogs which he laid in a row on the cutting table. He cut them in two and picked up one of the pieces.
    “How about it?” Waldo asked. Charley looked at him with gold-flecked eyes, his tail dusting the floor, and rolled his lips back over his teeth in what might be considered a smile.
    “Good boy,” said Waldo, tossing the piece which Charley caught in his mouth.
    Cody ate his breakfast in silence, throwing Waldo a nod of approval, while Waldo tossed frankfurter slices to Charley.
    Two burly-looking men entered the diner. They were dressed for hard work and one had a stevedore’s hook hanging over his shoulder. He looked at Charley through puffy, hangover eyes. “Dogs ain’t allowed in restaurants,” he said harshly.
    “What’s the matter,” the captain answered pleasantly. “You don’t like dogs?”
    “No. One bit me once when I was a kid. I still got the scar on my leg.”
    “Dogs are like people. Some bite and some don’t.”
    “He still don’t belong in here.”
    “He’s a seeing eye dog,” Cody said with a trace of smile.
    “Oh yeah? You don’t look blind to me,” the stevedore snapped back.
    “It’s his day off. We always have breakfast together on his day off.” Cody paid the check and they left.
    The stevedore watched them through the window and mumbled, “Dumb mutt.”
    Waldo stared at the stevedore for a moment and closed the conversation. “He’s smarter than most people I know,” Waldo said. “He was one of the first rescue dogs at Ground Zero on 9/11.”
    Δ
    By seven-five, his morning ritual over, the captain was back at his apartment, had showered, and was toweling off when his cell phone buzzed.
    “Yeah?”
    “It’s Cal. Looks like we got one.”
    “Where?”
    “East side. Seventy-third between 3 rd and Lex. Rizzo should be out front as we speak.”
    “You there?”
    “Already started the drill.”
    “On my way.”
    He looked out the window just as the black Ford pulled in front.
    Cody dressed quickly in dark gray slacks and a brown turtle neck, slipped on his shoulder holster, a black sports jacket; and pulled on a pair of black Bally boots, then reached for