Seven Ways to Die Read Online Free PDF

his hunting knife, checked its blade, and tucked it into the holster. His briefcase was sitting beside the door—an old-fashioned, weathered-leather satchel like doctors once carried when they made house calls. He grabbed it on the way out.
    “Stay, Charley, I’ll be back later,” he said. The dog stared after him for a few moments then wandered into the corner of the living room, stretched out on a large fleece mat, and dozed off.
    The captain moved quickly down the stairs to the door and raced to the car. Rizzo swung the door open and he jumped in.
    “Morning, Frank,” he said, slamming the door behind him.
    “And a good morning to you, Micah,” Rizzo answered.
    He put the big car in gear and they took off.
    Δ
    Rizzo was a big man, his craggy face a map of thirty years on the NYPD. He was over six-feet tall, muscular, with white hair and a handlebar mustache to match. He had a barbed wire sense of humor which masked a sentimental side that was unusual for a cop of his experience who had lost his wife to cancer a few years earlier. Years of routine dictated his appearance. Dark suit, starched button-down shirt, silk tie, shoes agleam. His alert blue eyes were always on the rove. He didn’t miss a thing. After ten years in homicide he was getting bored with the routine and was considering early retirement when Cody asked him to lunch one day. Over hamburgers and a beer at P. J. Clark’s, Cody proposed.
    “I’d like you to be my number one in a new outfit we’re putting together, Sergeant,” Cody said.
    “What do I do?” Sergeant Rizzo asked
    “Teach me what you know and keep me out of trouble,” Cody answered with a casual smile.
    Rizzo knew about Cody, admired his free-wheeling M.O. and his reputation as a tough, intuitive, wily detective with a unique approach to a crime scene and a legendary record for solving tough homicides. Cody was also known as an introspective cop who avoided headlines, preferring to let others take the glory. He was in his thirties at the time he made captain, unheard of in the ranks of the PD.
    “What’s this outfit called?” Rizzo asked.
    “The Tactical Assistance Squad.”
    Rizzo had no idea at the time what the TAZ, an acronym for which it would become known in the PD, was all about. He didn’t care either. He liked Micah Cody instantly.
    “What the hell,” he said, “you’re on.”
    Cody reached in his pocket, took out a gold badge and slid it across the table.
    “Thanks, Lieutenant,” he said.
    It was a marriage made in heaven. They had put together a hand-picked crew of mostly young men and women who fit their own peculiar, sometimes eccentric, way of approaching homicides. They were not disenchanted by long days, hard work, and sporadic disappointments. The mentoring of Cody and Rizzo fueled it. Respect for each other’s sometimes wildly divergent ideas and intuitions energized it. Challenge kept it focused.
    The final member of the TAZ was a loner. A free lancer. The forensic pathologist named Max Wolfsheim whom Cody and Rizzo had lured from retirement with a promise that he could do things his own way, taking on cases that would add new glory to an already legendary resume. Wolfsheim had not been disappointed. He was also keenly aware that life in the TAZ had kept him from a slow descent into bootless old age. He was a garrulous, often impatient and worrisome genius.
    “I just felt the earth tremble, Wolf must be on his way,” Rizzo had once told a young member of the crew. It was an aphorism well-earned.
    Δ
    Rizzo was the best driver in the squad. He sped across town to Third Avenue and grabbed a left, alternately pumping brake and gas pedal, weaving through the early morning traffic like an old-timer qualifying at the Brickyard. He filled in Cody on the run, never taking his eyes off the street.
    “Cal fields a 911 to NYPD at six-fifty-eight. A housekeeper on her cell phone. She’s pretty hysterical. Says somebody killed the man she works for and gives