The Deadhouse Read Online Free PDF Page B

flipping off the radio, turning on the
headlights, and easing out of the parking space to take me home.

    4

    I heard
The New York Times
slam against my apartment door
at six-thirty, flung there by the porter who distributed the papers
throughout the building every morning. Drops of water from my hair,
still wet from the shower, dripped onto the front page as I leaned over
to pick it up and check the headlines for the story of Lola Dakota's
death.
    Three pages back in the Metro section was a photo of Lola, standing
at a lectern in full academic dress, mortarboard atop her head. The
caption read "University Professor Dies in Bizarre Accident," above a
subheading printed in smaller type describing her as a "Witness for the
Prosecution." The reporter had managed to incorporate every
stereotypical expression of reaction into his brief story. The
administration was shocked and saddened by news of the beloved
professor's death, students were puzzled by the ironic twists of fate
in Dakota's final days, and her husband's family was outraged at
charges that he was alleged to have been involved in the thwarted plot
to kill her.
    The phone rang and Chapman gave me the morning weather report.
"You're gonna need a dogsled to get downtown this morning. The streets
are coated with ice and the windchill brings it down to about five
degrees. I'm on my way home to catch a few hours' sleep."
    "Anything develop during the rest of the tour?"
    "Nope. Made the usual notifications, took care of all the paperwork,
got the preliminary reports down on the chief of detectives' desk so
he's in the know first thing he walks in. Subway's the only way to go
today, kid, much as you hate it. The driving is treacherous. See you
around lunchtime."
    I finished dressing and reluctantly headed for the Sixty-eighth
Street Lexington Avenue station, anxious to beat the rush hour crowds.
Once settled into my seat, I scoped out the other passengers and sat
back to read the rest of the newspaper. It was early enough so that
most of my companions appeared to be people going to their jobs and
offices. A bit later and too many of the riders who stayed on board
south of Forty-second Street would also be on their way to the
courthouse, to make appearances for their criminal cases. On those
occasional days that I got on the train at nine o'clock, it was an
eerie feeling as we looked each other over for the last ten minutes of
the ride, knowing at a glance—the closer we all got to the Canal Street
station—that we were combatants on opposite sides of the battle.
Usually, I preferred to drive to work.
    The cold air bit at my cheeks as I reached the top step of the
subway exit and turned south for the short walk to Hogan Place,
fighting the strong wind as I walked carefully around icy patches on
the sidewalk. The guy inside the small pushcart on the corner closest
to the office saw me coming and readied a bag with two large black
coffees.
    I scanned my identification tag into the turnstile, greeted the
uniformed cop who sat at the security desk, and got on the elevator
with a few other lawyers from the staff. I stuck my head in at the
press office around the corner from my own desk to remind the assistant
to include Dakota's story and obituary in the clips she was preparing
for the district attorney to read. Each morning, Brenda Whitney's aides
combed the
Times
and the tabloids, the local and national
papers, cutting and compiling all the stories related to our cases or
to crime stories that might be of interest to Paul Battaglia and his
executive staff.
    Before I could remove my coat and boots, Pat McKinney stood in the
doorway, resting a hand on the back of my secretary's, Laura's, empty
chair. "Lost a big one last night, huh?"
    I tried not to let my intense dislike for McKinney, who was deputy
chief of the trial division and one of the supervisors to whom I
answered, affect my response. "After all that woman had been through,
you might think about putting it in terms