Anniversary Day Read Free Page B

was more of a long shirt—over her legs. They were covered in black tights. She wore heels so high that she tottered as she went into that galley kitchen.
    He didn’t stand, but he did turn slightly in his chair so that his back wasn’t to her. He slid the chair silently sideways so that he could see her move in the kitchen.
    Her figure wasn’t spectacular, the way a stripper’s would be. So she was most likely a sex worker. He would have to ask, or have Palmette do it, very delicately. This woman was on an edge, one he didn’t like.
    I opened the door and there he was .
    He thinks he’s my boyfriend. But he’s not .
    Dishes rattled in the kitchen. Nyquist could see her moving plates around to find a mug. He allowed himself a shudder this time and hoped she wouldn’t take it as an insult when he didn’t actually drink the coffee he had asked for.
    As he waited, he sent a silent message through his links to Dispatch: Need to hear the emergency call for this residence ASAP. Through private links only, please. And need a timestamp .
    He got an automated acknowledgement. This kind of request was routine, although not something that usually happened while on the scene. Usually the detective got the auxiliary information back at the precinct.
    “Here you go.” She came back, carrying two mugs by the handle. They steamed. She set his mug down in front of him, then put one in front of her place. She smiled at him again, which struck him as really strange, considering there was still a dead man in her front room, a dead man she claimed she knew.
    “Thank you,” Nyquist said, and smiled back.
    As she sat down, he looked at her shoes. Clean. He hadn’t expected that. He had expected some dried blood on the bottom. Anyone who had gone near that corpse would have blood on their shoes.
    “What’s the name of the gentleman in the front room?” Nyquist asked.
    “He’s not a gentleman,” she snapped.
    Again the mood shift was sudden, the vehemence almost tangible.
    “My mistake,” Nyquist said calmly. “What’s the name of the man you called us about?”
    “Callum,” she said as if she didn’t want the word to pass through her lips.
    “Callum what?”
    Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
    Why? He’d never been asked that before at this stage of an investigation. “Just so that we can put the right name on the files.”
    “Sheel,” she said as if it were top secret.
    “And he’s been bothering you,” Nyquist said.
    “You have no idea,” she said.
    “You want to tell me about it?” he asked.
    “Boy, do I ever,” she said, and began to talk.
     
     
     

Three
     
    The woman—Alvina—had only been talking for ten minutes, but it felt like two hours. Nyquist had wrapped his hands around the coffee mug and tried not to think about its slimy exterior. She had been going through a list of grievances against this Callum Sheel, and at this point, Nyquist wasn’t sure if they were real grievances or imagined ones.
    At this point, he wasn’t sure it mattered.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Palmette move into the kitchen. He cursed silently, then sent her a message through his links.
    Back off. She’s talking .
    I’ll just listen and record from in here , Palmette sent back.
    No, you won’t , he sent. Back off. That’s an order .
    The woman stopped talking. He wasn’t sure if that was because she heard Palmette in the kitchen or if his expression had changed, letting his irritation at Palmette show.
    “You don’t believe me,” the woman said.
    “Oh, I do,” Nyquist said. “He stalked you.”
    “Yes! That’s the word.” Then she peered at the kitchen. “You hear that?”
    Get out , he sent to Palmette, but she hadn’t moved. Dammit.
    “That,” the woman said in the calmest voice. Then she stood. “He’s in the kitchen.”
    Crap. It was exactly what Nyquist thought. She was delusional.
    She moved quicker than he expected, crossed the distance between her chair and the kitchen door in five