The Storm Murders Read Online Free PDF Page A

the company of an unknown FBI agent from south of the border, Cinq-Mars was down on his living room carpet faithfully performing gyrations taught to him by an osteopath. Sandra answered the bell while he remained stationary, one leg straight out behind him, the arm on his opposite side straight out before him, his weight on the other hand and on one knee, eyes front like a pointer with a duck dead in its sights. Sphincter and tummy muscles tucked and taut, he sustained the position for a requisite ten-count, then relaxed and remembered to breathe.
    He was still down on the floor when his guests came into the room. In preparing his “Why Not Stay On Forever?” list, he had come up with only one good reason, which he had also numbered.
    1. Seriously, what will I do with myself if I quit?
    Do weird exercises on the living room carpet between crosswords, apparently.
    Mathers, of course, seized the opportunity to rub that in. “So this is what retirement is like. You finally hit the gym. I always said you should.”
    “No, I always said you should. Good afternoon,” Cinq-Mars greeted the man he didn’t know as he tightened his stomach muscles again to assist his progress to an upright position. “ É mile Cinq-Mars, as you may have guessed. I’m not at my best. You’ve met Sandra?”
    “Indeed, we were introduced.” The new arrival turned his shoulders to more formally include her. “What a charming home, Mrs. Cinq-Mars.”
    The older man with the younger wife wondered if the visiting American with the firm handshake was not flirting. You could never tell with them. Yanks had a way of being effusive that in many cultures came across as flirtatious, but really demonstrated nothing more than an excessive insecurity. Formulaic, somehow. He enjoyed the way that Sandra, an American herself and comfortable with the style, received the compliment, acknowledged it with a smile, yet declined to rise to the bait. She’d been living in Canada too long, perhaps. “Thank you very much, Mr. Dreher. We’re comfortable here.” A glance at her husband acknowledged the irony, for lately she was not comfortable at all.
    Cinq-Mars shook Mathers’s hand as well and they exchanged a grin.
    Having seen to their coats, Sandra advised the men that she’d leave them to chat momentarily, but first she’d be back in a jiff with something to munch on, and did they prefer coffee or tea?
    “Oh, please, don’t let us be any trouble,” Bill implored her in the Canadian style, which demanded that any proffered act of hospitality must at first be politely declined.
    “You’ve come a distance. You may need the nourishment to get home.”
    A routine joke for this household, and the visitors chuckled lightly. They were not going to protest any further, as it had been well over an hour’s drive out and they could both use a nosh. Each man, including their host, chose coffee.
    A ring of shrimp with a red dipping sauce went first, but once the guests sampled Sandra’s coconut squares they became a big hit. The cookies were also a favorite, and even the celery and carrot sticks with a dip were consumed. Coffee arrived served in mugs and a thermos was set before them for refills, so that they were left in a position to talk at length without further interruption. Cinq-Mars wondered what his wife knew that he didn’t, but she’d probably answer: you.
    Not that he was chatty. Hardly. But in being introduced to a professional whom he’d not met his tendency was to be oblique and circuitous, to circle the man’s position and intelligence as he assessed his words under a microscope. All that usually took time.
    Mathers was the one to get down to it. “So we’re here, as I said, about the police shootings.”
    Cinq-Mars grunted.
    “You’ve followed the investigation on the news?” Agent Rand Dreher inquired. He explained at the outset that he preferred to be called Rand, not Randolph, which seemed an utterly preposterous name, he espoused, and,