Chasing Suspect Three Read Free

Recently, she finished her law studies
and passed the bar exam in Florida.
    Once back in his kitchen, she finished her
coffee, rinsed the carafe, and tossed the coffee grounds into the
trash. That’s when she noticed she had thrown the grounds on top of
a small book lying in the waste can meant for garbage.
    She carefully lifted the book out with two
fingers and brushed it free of trash. It was in the wrong bin. She
smiled at the charming Old English, lavender and lace design of the
book jacket, heralding a collection of Emily Dickinson love poems.
Where did this come from? Chip must have been cleaning out his
college bookshelf. Love poems? Really? Although far from an
uncultured dolt, he wasn’t likely to play Cyrano to anyone’s
Roxanne. Although she could count on him to come up with a romantic
gesture at just the right time, reading rapturous love sonnets to
her wasn’t in his play book.
    She shrugged and tossed the poetry book into
the correct container for recyclables. She glanced at her
watch—might as well open her law office early. Even though she had
scant work to do at the office, she didn’t want to waste the day
sitting around his empty house.
    The book left her mind until evening, after
she closed her office for the day and came back over. They sat on
the screen-porch that ran across the back of his house sipping wine
and looking out on the back yard rimmed with full blooming Hibiscus
bushes of all tropical colors. The sun had set much earlier, yet
evenings are seldom cool during a Florida summer. No breeze that
night. Yet, they were comfortable wearing shorts and sitting under
the draft of the silent slow-moving wicker blades of the ceiling
fan.
    “Your dead body today...homicide?” she
asked.
    “Nasty. Guy shot in his shower. Not my
case—it’s Jaworski’s. He joked if his wife ever shoots anyone, it’d
be in the shower stall so the blood wouldn’t get all over the
room.”
    “There you go,” she said. “You have a clue
already, the murderer is a woman.”
    “Yeah, normally I’d bet on the wife, however
this has a different sense of viciousness about it. Cold-blooded
like the perp just opens the shower door, shoots him, and walks
away.”
    “Was the water still running and the shower
door found closed?”
    “How’d you guess?”
    “A woman would take time to close the shower
door after shooting him so water wouldn’t spray the bathroom
floor.”
    “I’ll mention that to Jaworski.” He smiled
and fell silent.
    Enough sharing of his job for one day, she
figured. She didn’t want him describing details anyway. She could
tolerate most crime scenes and dead bodies didn’t bother her as
long they were all cleaned up and under a nice white sheet. “Hear
that cicada?” she asked.
    “That’s a male vibrating for its mate.”
    “Save the innuendos for later, please. I’ll
tell you when to start vibrating.” The thought brought the love
poems back to her mind. With a slight laugh, she asked about his
interest in poetry. “Did you find an old poetry book lying around
from your college days? You ever wonder how many old English Lit
books have made the journey from the bookcase to the attic, yet
never to the trash? I wonder how many homes have at least one old
textbook that somehow just can’t be thrown away?”
    He glanced over at her not catching on.
    “Emily Dickinson...Love Poems. In the
trash.”
    “Oh that.” He went on explaining
matter-of-factly. It seems a former girlfriend had phoned yesterday
with the usual, how was he, how had he been doing? He brushed her
off politely; he wasn’t interested in connecting again, especially
with her. She said she understood, nevertheless they should meet
briefly anyway, as she had something that should be returned to
him.
    Sandy couldn’t help raising an eyebrow.
    They had met for coffee yesterday evening, he
explained. She put the book of poems on the table saying she had to
give it back to him. He protested saying he’d never given her