The Storm Murders Read Online Free PDF Page B

even remotely interested in local murders, let alone send an agent all the way from—we don’t know from where exactly, do we?—to check them out?”
    “I was told that you were a tough nut,” Dreher said, testing his American charm again.
    “Not true. I’m retired. An old softy now. My wife will confirm it. But the fact of the matter is, Agent Dreher—”
    “Call me Rand.”
    “Thank you. Rand. I don’t know what you’re doing here. By here , I mean, why are you investigating this case, or even talking about it, in a country where you are the foreigner, number one, and two, why are you talking specifically to me?”
    “Fair enough. I was planning to keep that sort of thing to myself for now, until we determined your level of interest, but I’ll answer you. The SQ has given us permission—”
    “Us, meaning the FBI, or you and Bill?”
    “Ah, the FBI, actually.”
    Cinq-Mars poured himself more coffee and offered to do the same for the other men. They declined with simple gestures.
    “The SQ has given … me …” Dreher emphasized, growing accustomed to the older detective’s legendary persnickety attention to the exact meanings of words, both the intentions of words, and their ability to obfuscate the truth, “license to have a look at the crime scene, to determine if these killings are connected in any way, shape, or form, to murders south of the border.”
    “Ah,” Cinq-Mars acknowledged. Folding his arms over his chest appeared to indicate that he was growing more at ease with their discussion, as the parameters were beginning to make sense.
    “I was hoping, Detective Cinq-Mars—”
    “Please. Call me É mile. The detective thing doesn’t fly anymore.”
    Dreher dipped his head to receive the invitation. “ É mile. I was hoping that you might accompany us to the crime scene. Your expertise is legendary. This is your neck of the woods. Perhaps you might be of assistance.”
    He wanted to stand. His back problems flared up after he sat for too long. Yet this was not the moment to interrupt their exchange, and so he remained in his chair. He recognized one incongruity right off the top. All that stuff about him being a legendary detective would not hold an ounce of spirits in a shot glass inside the FBI. A smoke-screen, but one that made him more curious.
    “The crime scene’s gone stale,” Cinq-Mars reminded his visitors. “It’s what, ten days old? Two cops dead, I’m sure the SQ picked over it with a fine-tooth comb. I doubt very much that I can help. What can you tell me about the other murders, the ones in your own country?”
    Agent Dreher seemed to genuinely regret being unable to say more and indicated that his hands were tied. “Examine the scene with us. If you show an interest in helping us out, more can be explained. If you choose not to be involved, I’ll have nothing further to add. I’m afraid that I can’t offer much more at this time.”
    Involved. He was retired. Why would he be involved ? Why would anyone ask?
    “So far,” he mused, “I have some idea of why you’re here. But Bill, my friend, my old partner, how did you get dragged into this? Why are you here?”
    Mathers seemed sheepish. He separated his hands, then knitted them together again, a gesture of pleading. His expression indicated embarrassment.
    “What?” Cinq-Mars pressed him.
    “I’m here,” Bill Mathers admitted, “because I know you. I’m the one who’s supposed to convince you to do this.”
    A silent few seconds passed between them, their eyes locked on one another’s, before Cinq-Mars broke off that connection and commenced a guttural chuckling that worked its way up through his lips and cheeks. Mathers quietly joined in. They were obviously finding the circumstance, and Mathers’s explanation, hilarious.
    “What’s so funny?” Dreher asked.
    Cinq-Mars altered his seated posture and apologized. “Sorry. Inside joke. Look, if my wife is willing to let me out of the