That Nietzsche Thing Read Online Free PDF

picked up the phone and looked at the
number scrawled on the receiver. His momentary distraction was all
I needed. I reached for the side table, scooped up the e-reader and
slid it into the pocket of my bomber.
    Constantine read aloud the phone number. I
wrote it down on my notepad, tore out the page and handed it to
him.
    “We’ll see what this turns up,” Constantine
said, looking at the slip of paper. “And what Forensics finds—” His
phone interrupted him, ringing deep with his suit. At least, I
thought his phone was lost somewhere in the pocket of his suit. He
didn’t reach for it, he simply tapped behind his ear. I didn’t see
any device.
    He nodded and muttered in his own private
conversation. “No, they have to file the complaint with the Circuit
Judge on Tuesday...” he said to the air. “No, Tuesday . I
know. I know Monday is a federal holiday. Why do you think we chose
this weekend?” Constantine turned for the door, still talking on
his phantom phone. “Well, then they’re shit out of luck, aren’t
they? No, no, I’m done here, I’ll be back at Command in fifteen
minutes. Can you wait here until Forensics arrives? Fonseca?
Detective?”
    It slowly dawned on me that he was talking to
me again. “Oh, what? Sure?” I stammered.
    That was enough for Constantine. He turned
and stepped out in the hall, continuing to berate the other end of
his phone call. He was leaving me high and dry on the top of Queen
Anne Hill, but I didn’t mind. Frankly, I was glad to see the back
of him.
    I waited a full two minutes before I removed
the e-reader from my pocket.
    I sat down in the rickety chair, pulled
Vivian’s ashtray closer across the coffee table, and lit another
smoke. I took a puff off the cigarette and relaxed into the
chair.
    I felt oddly at home, surrounded by the dead
girl’s things. Perhaps my “getting into the victim’s head” shtick
was working too well, but I couldn’t remember ever feeling so
comfortable in a strange place.
    Perhaps that was why the e-reader had stood
so sharply out of focus against the backdrop of the apartment. It
just didn’t fit. The wall of books, the thrift store art, the
nick-nacks, all screamed of a woman interested in the tactile
sensation of things. I’d never met Montavez other than touching her
mutilated corpse just long enough to drag her out of a dumpster,
but somehow I knew she wasn’t the kind who read books on a tablet.
The bookcase was so neatly organized, and its contents so obviously
a work of love that the e-reader had to belong to someone else.
    Perhaps the murderer? It was quite a leap of
faith, but the e-reader in the apartment couldn’t just be a
coincidence. I smoked my Kools and flipped it on, hoping for pay
dirt.
    If I could solve the Montavez murder myself,
recover her body, that would be quiet the slap in Constantine’s
face and his three C’s. It was the kind of thing that might save a
guy his civil service paycheck...
    But the e-reader contained only one book. Its
title made me cough.
    Q. Just Q. My finger hesitated on the select
button.
    Could there be anything good inside this
document? Anything I really wanted to learn?
    I told myself not to be such a pussy and then
hit select.
    My disappointment was audible.
    The document opened to show a screen full of
scrambled text. Page after page of random characters and
punctuations marks. It was encrypted. Fuck. I switched off the
e-reader and returned it to the pocket of my bomber.
    It’d been a long shot, anyway. Now I was well
and truly up shit’s creek without a paddle.
    I smoked my cigarette and mused, looking at
the view from the window.
    I knew a guy at the university who might be
able to decrypt the file. He had the computing power and the
fan-boy interest in police work to put in the hours to help out a
cop. But did it really matter? I thought, looking at the skyline of
Seattle. If Seattle was now officially a Federal wardship, was any
of this really my problem?
    Maybe. I looked