Sharpshooter Read Online Free PDF Page B

there was every reason to believe it was only going to get worse. She tried to make it all seem real. Jack Beroni was dead. The police clearly considered Wade a suspect, at least for the moment. And Steve Harvey, perennial big softy about town, was coming on like a big-city cop. “Did he say if they have any ideas about who did it?” she asked Rivka.
    “Nothing so far. Whoever shot him was careful. They never even came near him, just shot him from way off, probably from the trees along the west side of the vineyard. They didn’t find any footprints or anything. They have about a dozen guys out there looking for evidence. They think the killer used a rifle, a powerful one that’s effective from a long way away, probably fitted with a night scope. Alex says those guns are incredibly accurate if you know how to shoot them. The killer could have hit Jack from a hundred yards away and ditched the gun in theforest. The only evidence they found, as far as Alex could tell, was the body and the bullet.”
    “And they could tell exactly what kind of gun was used?”
    “Yeah. They could tell by the bullet. They can even match the bullet to a specific gun, if they find it. Don’t you watch cop shows on TV?”
    “No TV. I’m a recovering addict, remember? I haven’t watched TV since they invented the remote.”
    “Right, I forgot. Anyway, every gun barrel leaves its own particular marks on the bullet when it’s fired, like a fingerprint. They’re threaded, so the bullet spins and the threads make little scratches on the bullet that they can match up to the gun.”
    Sunny felt a wave of relief. This was very good news. The police had the bullet. If there was any real suspicion of Wade, which the rational side of her mind seriously doubted, the police could always check the bullet against his gun. She took a deep breath.
    Rivka looked at her. “What?”
    “Nothing.”
    “You thought something.”
    “No, just thinking about that bullet. How somewhere out there in the world there’s a gun that matches it.”
    Sunny looked at the clock above the couch. It was after ten; they’d have to hurry if they were going to be ready to open in an hour. Rivka went back to the kitchen and Sunny picked up the phone and dialed Wade’s number. She tapped the office door closed with her foot.
    By noon the restaurant buzzed with news of the murder. From her station behind the zinc bar Sunny caught snatches of conversation from the dining room. It seemed as if everyone wastalking about Jack Beroni. Each time a waiter or one of the customers encountered someone new, they seemed compelled to establish whether or not the other person had heard the news, and if so, whether every scrap of available information and informed speculation was known. If a reference to the tragedy, what happened last night, or Beroni Vineyards went unacknowledged, the instigator would say, “You haven’t heard?” and then relate in ever increasing detail what had happened.
    Sunny plated a row of salads from an enormous aluminum mixing bowl full of dressed baby greens and added a disk of pistachio-crusted goat cheese and a fan of date slivers to each. Like the rest of the town, she couldn’t get used to the idea of somebody like Jack being gone all of a sudden. He’d been a fixture in the valley as much as Beroni Vineyards itself. Every party and charitable event had to include an appearance by Jack Beroni in a tuxedo. The man wore a tux more often than most movie stars. Around St. Helena, he was everywhere. She’d see him coming out of the hardware store on Railroad Avenue, having coffee at Bismark’s, getting a sandwich at the Oakville Grocery. It wasn’t that she knew him well, it was more that he was part of the fauna of the valley, like the quail and the coyotes and the rattlesnakes—creatures she assumed were there and saw occasionally, but who otherwise went about their business well outside the range of her familiarity. “I just can’t believe he’s