Shadow of Death Read Online Free PDF

the fact that he wasn’t too comfortable in an office. He liked being out on the streets where the action was.
    When I climbed the stairway it was a little after eight-fifteen in the morning, and the restaurant was closed. Still, the mingled stale smell of curry and coconut milk and roasted peanuts and seared hot peppers lingered in the walls.
    The door to Cahill’s office was open a crack. With my briefcase in one hand and my bag of muffins and coffee in the other, I nudged it open with my toe and said, “Hey, Gordie. I come bearing muffins.”
    He didn’t answer. I went in.
    His cramped office was dominated by a big old oak desk with an Apple computer, two telephones, and a wire basket full of papers. A dirty window overlooked the back alley. A row of filing cabinets took up one wall. There was a mini-refrigerator and a microwave oven and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase that held mostly legal tomes, phone books, atlases, and other reference works.

    To the left, the door to the conference room was ajar. I put the bag of muffins and coffee and my briefcase on Cahill’s desk and stepped into the other room.
    â€œGordie, you here?” I said. “I’m in no mood for—”
    That’s when the gun barrel rammed into the back of my neck and the growly voice said, “Don’t even blink.”
    â€œHey,” I said. “That hurts.”
    I recognized the growly voice. It belonged to my old friend—and occasional nemesis—Roger Horowitz. Horowitz was a homicide detective for the Massachusetts state police. Naturally, whenever I encountered him it meant that he was investigating a homicide, so naturally, as much as I liked him, I never wanted to encounter him. It usually meant somebody I knew had died under suspicious circumstances.
    â€œChrist,” Horowitz grumbled. “It’s you.”
    â€œPlease point that thing somewhere else,” I said.
    He hesitated, then shoved his gun into the holster under his armpit.
    I poked my finger at his chest. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œI’m the cop,” he said. “I get to ask the questions. What are you doing here?”
    â€œI brought coffee and bran muffins. I’m having breakfast with Cahill.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBran muffins are good for you,” I said. “They keep you regular.”
    â€œAnswer the fucking question, Coyne. I been up all night. I’m in no mood.”
    â€œHe’s doing some work for me,” I said. “We were supposed to meet here and talk about it.”
    â€œWhat work?”

    â€œOh, no you don’t,” I said. “I came here to talk to Gordie, not you.”
    â€œCahill ain’t here.”
    â€œI see that.”
    â€œThat’s because he’s dead,” he said.
    â€œGordie?”
    He nodded.
    I sat heavily in one of the chairs at the conference table. “What happened?”
    Horowitz blew out a breath and slumped in the chair across from me. “You said something about muffins. Got coffee, too?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œGo get ’em.”
    â€œYou want a muffin,” I said, “you’ve got to tell me what happened to Gordie.”
    Horowitz narrowed his eyes, pretended to ponder the pros and cons of that proposition, then nodded. “I can tell you some things, I guess. That coffee better still be hot or the deal’s off.”
    I fetched the paper bag from the other room, plunked it down on the conference table, and sat across from Horowitz.
    He ripped the bag open, popped the top off one of the coffees, and took a sip.
    â€œHot enough?” I said.
    He shrugged, picked up a muffin, and took a bite. “Car crash,” he mumbled around his mouthful of muffin. “Around midnight last night.”
    â€œWhere?” I said. “How? What the hell happened?”
    He took another sip of coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “He was heading