The Undertaker's Widow Read Online Free PDF Page A

“What is that?”
    â€œUh-uh. No food, no facts. Hell, I’m so hungry I might just eat this exceptionally fine, and difficult-to-find, evidence.”
    Anthony laughed. “You have to be the biggest asshole in the bureau, Leroy, but I was going to eat soon, anyway.”
    Anthony stood up and walked over to the closet to get his raincoat. Dennis followed him.
    â€œNow, what have you come up with?” he asked.
    â€œThe name of our perp,” Dennis answered, his tone suddenly serious. “I ran the burglar’s prints through AFIS,” Dennis explained, mentioning the Automated Fingerprint Identification System that used computers to compare unknown prints to the prints stored in the computer’s data banks. “We got a hit an hour ago.”
    â€œWho do we have?”
    â€œMartin Jablonski. He’s got the rap sheet for the job. Armed robbery, assault, burglary. He was paroled from OSP eight months ago where he was serving timefor a pretty brutal home invasion that happened six years ago. Pistol-whipped an elderly couple. I talked to his parole officer. Jablonski’s supposed to be living with his wife, Conchita Jablonski, and their two kids in an apartment off Martin Luther King near Burnside. He’s been unemployed or working as temporary labor since he got out of prison.”
    â€œLet’s get a D.A. to write up an application for a search warrant, then visit the little woman,” Anthony said.
    Dennis grinned. “Where do you think I’ve been this last hour? I’m two steps ahead of you. Sondra Barrett is working on the affidavit as we speak. She’ll have it ready to take to a judge after lunch. Now, where shall we go?”
    Anthony parked his car in front of an old brick apartment house a few blocks from the Burnside Bridge. The Jablonskis lived on the third floor. It was a walk-up. As they climbed the stairs, Dennis complained about the lack of an elevator and the god-awful smell in the stairwell.
    The third floor was poorly lit. The outside light had to fight its way through a grime-covered window on one end of the corridor and was so weak from the effort that it ended up dull yellow. The lightbulbs that hung from the ceiling were either broken or of such low wattage that Anthony wondered why the super bothered to turn them on.
    The Jablonskis’ apartment did not have a bell, so Anthony bashed a meaty hand against the door and bellowed “Mrs. Jablonski” while he strained to hear if there was any movement inside. After his third try, Anthony heard a nervous “Who is it?” from the other side of the door.
    â€œI’m Detective Anthony with the Portland Police, Mrs. Jablonski.”
    â€œI don’t wanna talk with you,” Conchita Jablonski answered. Her speech was thickened by a heavy Spanish accent. “Go away.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI said, I don’t wanna talk to no cops. Leave me alone.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mrs. Jablonski, but you have no choice. I have a search warrant. If you don’t open the door, I’ll have the super bring the key. It’s about your husband.”
    There was no sound inside the apartment. When the silence stretched to thirty seconds, Anthony turned to Dennis.
    â€œWait here while I round up the key.”
    Dennis nodded. Anthony was about to walk to the stairs when he heard locks snap. The door opened a crack and Conchita Jablonski stared at Anthony through a gap in the door. The safety chain was still on. Anthony held up his badge so Mrs. Jablonski could see it through the narrow opening.
    â€œThis is Detective Dennis,” Anthony told her as he pointed over his shoulder. Dennis flashed her a friendly smile, but Mrs. Jablonski continued to regard the men with suspicion. “We need to talk to you about Martin.”
    â€œFor why?”
    â€œCan we come in, please? I really don’t want to discuss your business out here in the hall where all of your