The Storm Murders Read Online Free PDF

of course, not Randy, which as he tried to joke sounded too—he hesitated for comic effect— randy.
    Cinq-Mars grunted a second time.
    “So you haven’t been following it?” Mathers asked. “Are you that retired?”
    He put his cup down and made a decision to be more accommodating, or at least less distant. “The papers—the media—haven’t reported on much, Bill, except to say that they have nothing new to report on. So I suppose I know the details of the crime—may I point out that not only policemen were killed—but I really don’t know much else.” He studied Dreher. Tall and broad, he was about 220 pounds and carried it well. He had probably played football in college, or some other team sport, and the fitness regime that would have been necessary at that time still held him in good stead. In the FBI style, he was well dressed and superbly coiffed, and struck a conservative style. The only discernible flaw which would not favor him as a GQ specimen was a bushiness—trimmed, but nonetheless a wildness—to his eyebrows. He was in his early forties, but when today’s jet-black hair turned gray, those eyebrows would become a distinctive feature. For the time being, they were probably an embarrassment that required weekly attention to tame. “So, have I been following the crime in the media? There’s been precious little to follow. That’s not to say that I have no interest in being informed, to hear what transpired.”
    Dreher overcame his shyness about doing so to pinch the last square.
    “Good. Of course.” He brushed a few crumbs from his fingertips onto a plate.
    What the man considered either good or obvious Cinq-Mars could not tell. “Where are you from?” he asked him.
    The agent sounded unsure. “The U.S.” He appeared dismayed that his host might not know the country where the Federal Bureau of Investigation was located.
    “Where,” Cinq-Mars coaxed him along, “in the U.S.? I’m curious.”
    “Oh. Sure. The Midwest.”
    He was not going to be more forthcoming than that. Cinq-Mars considered pressing him on where in the Midwest but suspected that that game could go on an indefinite time and he wasn’t that curious. Clearly, the agent was a close-to-the-vest kind of guy, so at least he learned something.
    “The papers aren’t reporting much,” Mathers enlightened him, “because there’s nothing to report. Which is pretty much all that we know. Nothing.”
    “We?” Cinq-Mars asked. He smiled, and for old time’s sake enjoyed his partner’s mild consternation. Bill was reaching his mature years, in his late-forties now. Cinq-Mars was pleased to see that apart from the inevitable plumpness, he appeared to be growing into himself, rather than out of whom he used to be. He looked fine, more handsome than ever. Lines in his face that might not have been in evidence a decade ago spoke to his experience and a well-earned self-confidence. Roundly baby-faced, though, after a fashion. He’d carry that look into his nineties.
    “What do you mean?” Mathers asked.
    As was his wont, Cinq-Mars chose to answer a question with more questions.
    “Gentlemen, what is it that you know that I am having difficulty figuring out? If you have some personal or professional interest in this case, or special information, why aren’t you talking to the S û ret é du Qu é bec? The SQ are the ones who lost two officers. They’re the ones investigating this case. Not—if I may be presumptuous here—you. I might be out of touch, Bill, but I’m pretty sure the Montreal Urban Community Police Department does not get to investigate murders that take place off-island. Not only are you off the reservation, you might as well be light-years away from your jurisdiction. Or has that changed? What’s more, and I’ll point this out to you because you used to freely point it out to me, you’re not in Homicide. And the FBI? Seriously? You’re not even in the same galaxy here. Why the hell would the FBI be