The Suspect Read Online Free PDF Page A

violence or even dissonance; nothing but the body. And two books on the floor nearby, one of them splayed open, face down.
    Gainer was breathing heavily at his shoulder. Alberg, hands in his pockets, walked closer to what had been Carlyle Burke. He lay on his right side, almost graceful, a tall man, thin, legs arranged with peculiar elegance on the polished hardwood floor, head and upper torso resting on a brightly colored, homemade-looking rug. Very near him was a rocking chair, half on and half off the rug, one of its motionless rockers poised above his left hip.
    "It's neat, for a homicide,” said Gainer behind him. Alberg glanced over his shoulder at the constable. "Tidy, I mean,” said Gainer, almost cheerfully.
    There were no rings on the dead man's fingers. Carlyle Burke had been wearing a pair of white trousers and a pale blue shirt when someone shattered his skull. There wasn't much blood on his clothes, but his head, which was almost bald, lay in a pool of it. Sokolowski was right; he hadn't been dead for very long. His left eye looked hopelessly out across the floor. Alberg reached down, gently, and brushed the lid closed.
    Nothing appeared out of order in the rest of the house. In the bedroom, a single bed, a straight-backed chair, a small dresser with a mirror. On the dresser sat a large rectangular lump, covered with a red-and-white checked cloth. Alberg lifted a corner of the cloth. Beneath it was a cage containing a large green bird with a hooked beak. It let out a shriek.
    "Jesus," said Gainer, whirling from the closet, which was full of clothes hanging from rods and stacked in drawers. Alberg dropped the cloth, and the bird was silent. In another room they found a great many bookshelves and a large ivory piano. ln the bathroom, clean towels. In the kitchen, the salmon in the sink.
    "Okay, Freddie," said Alberg. "Let's go see this Wilcox.”
    "What's your rank?" said George Wilcox. He was sitting on a bench in the middle of a small lawn behind the house.
    Alberg noticed more flower beds, and a tall pine tree close to the beach, and under it, set upon wooden blocks, an overturned aluminum rowboat. He heard the sea washing upon the sand.
    "I'm a staff sergeant," he said. "The fellow with the curls here is a constable."
    The old man was probably in his late seventies, not very tall, maybe five feet seven or eight, 160 pounds or so, with longish white hair that curled out from the sides of his head in waves. He had bright brown eyes and looked strong and fit, despite his age. He was slightly pale but composed. He watched Constable Redding disappear around the front of the house. "Where's he going?"
    "The sergeant's going to put him to work.”
    "Going to be a hell of a hullabaloo around here, once people find out what's going on,” said George Wilcox. "They must know something's up already. Those fellows, they came up here with their lights flashing and all that, did they?"
    "Probably," said Alberg, thinking of Sanducci. The old man seemed relaxed as he sat there, hands on his knees, peering up at them. He was enjoying the fact that he'd sent for them, and they had come.
    "And now you two. You're the boss, right? That why you aren't wearing a uniform?"
    "Yeah," said Alberg. "I'm the boss.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and continued to study George Wilcox, content to let him chatter on. The man wasn't disheveled. His gray sweater, white shirt, and gray trousers bore no stains, his face and hands were unmarked.
    "They said you'd want to ask me some questions,” the old man said.
    Alberg nodded. "First I'd like you to show me how you happened to find him. Can you do that?"
    "Of course I can do it.” George pushed himself up from the bench. They walked around to the front of the house, single file, Gainer leading the way, George in the middle.
    On the steps, Constable Coomer stepped back to let them through.
    George Wilcox leaned shakily against the doorjamb. "Give me a minute," he said.
    Alberg stood