Cry Wolf Read Free Page B

Bolings, in the mellow sunlight, as he ate a sandwich he’d gotten from the Subway in Continental.
    Small talk, mostly, but she did learn this. Bolings wasn’t first at the scene, but he’d arrived shortly thereafter.
    “So I high-tailed down here as soon as we found out it was a secondary crime scene,” he said.
    “Anyone coming and going?”
    “Not since I been here. Quiet as a tomb, except for the boy.”
    “You know the Sheeheys well?”
    “Pretty much. The kid’s pretty cool. Mrs. Sheehey has a temper, but she’s got it rough taking care of this place by herself, so who can blame her?”
    “Have you met any of the other guests?”
    “The birders. Just to say hi to. Oh, and I’ve noticed the girl.”
    “The girl?”
    “Maybe not a girl. She looks like she’s in her early twenties. I guess that would be out of girl territory?”
    Laura ignored that. “Ever talk to her?”
    “No. She’s been here for a week or so. A looker. Don’t tell my wife I said that.” Wink.
    Okay, he didn’t wink, but he might as well have.
    “Did they all leave?”
    Bolings shrugged. “No idea. You want me to go in with you?” He nodded toward Perrin’s cabin.
    “No, thanks.”
    The fewer people in a crime scene, the better.
    He looked a little put out. “Okay, then. Just give me a holler if you need me.” And he went back to his sandwich.

    For the second time today, Laura donned gloves and booties. She stepped onto the porch and into the deep shade. Cool, almost chilly. Even though it was very warm in the sun.
    It was like moving into another sphere.
    She thought of it as the victim’s place to go to ground, to be himself. His home, or the place where he stayed if he was on the road. Where he kicked off his shoes, where he slept, where he showered, where he watched TV.
    This was a venue that always changed from circumstance to circumstance, but in one respect it remained the same. It now belonged to her. She owned it. She owned whatever she could learn from this secondary crime scene, and she would try like hell to make no mistakes. A bell, once rung, reverberates.
    This was where the majority of her successful homicide investigations really started.
    With the victim’s den.

5: Frank Entwistle’s Ghost

    The room was paneled with an oak or pine veneer, and dark. The cream-colored curtains—cheap and nubbly—turned the outside sunlight into a garish orange glow that seeped around the edges and gleamed off the walls.
    The bed was unmade and a suitcase sat on a folding luggage rack near the bathroom. A robe hung on the bathroom door.
    Laura was looking at the suitcase when she felt the room temperature change. One moment it was warm, and the next, cold enough to raise goosebumps.
    Her eye went to the mirror on the bathroom door. More specifically, to the reflection in the mirror on the bathroom door.
    A man sat on the edge of the bed.
    The last time Laura saw Frank Entwistle she’d suggested he read up on ghosts to get an idea of how they conducted themselves, since he seemed to do such a slovenly job of it.
    He looked old and tired. Like a deflated balloon in his Sansabelt slacks circa 1989. Cheap button-down shirt, blazer, Hush Puppies loafers, a Daffy Duck tie.
    Lately Frank had taken to wearing cartoon character ties. The first time she’d seen him in one, she thought it had been due to indigestion brought on by some pork ribs.
    But it turned out to be a trend.
    “Scare you?” he said.
    “That ship sailed a long time ago.”
    “Thought you could benefit from my encyclopedic knowledge and razor-sharp instincts, kiddo. That’s why I’m here.”
    “You know what I think?” Laura said. “You miss it.”
    “I’m dead. I don’t miss anything.”
    Laura said, “I missed you—can you believe that?”
    “Sure I believe it. Just didn’t think you’d want me showing up, since you finally got a man. Thought it might embarrass you if I showed up at the wrong time.”
    A considerate ghost. Go figure. An