Cut and Run Read Free Page A

perform.”
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    Natalia took the CD-ROM back to the lab, where she popped it into her computer and discovered it wasn’t encrypted—nor was it full of traveling salesman jokes. What it did contain was the outline of a novel, along with a large file labeled NOTES and another called INTERVIEWS . She was halfway through them when Cooper stuck his head in the door. He wore a lab coat over a bright orange T-shirt with the word POW! on the chest.
    â€œHey,” he said. “I’ve been looking at that digital recorder you gave me.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œStep into my parlor and listen for yourself.”
    She followed him back to the AV lab. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s what was on it.” He hit a key and a voice she assumed was Hiram Davey’s said, “Maybe move the bit with the flamingo until the end of the chapter? I dunno…”
    A knock sounded in the background. “Dammit—just a sec—” There was a crashing noise—then nothing.
    â€œSounds like he was making notes for a book,” said Cooper. “And got attacked halfway through.”
    â€œThat doesn’t quite line up,” said Natalia. “The killer didn’t force his way in, so that crash had to have been part of the struggle. There were no voices, either. It’s like part of the tape was edited out—but why bother? Easier for the killer to erase the whole thing or just take it with him.”
    â€œI think I can explain the sequence of sounds. He was dictating notes, then hit pause when he heard the knock on the door. If he’d been using an analog recorder, there would’ve been a noticeable click. I had to analyze the signal digitally, but I found an interrupt signature.”
    â€œAnd the crash?”
    â€œSomething or somebody hit the pause button again. Probably happened by accident—maybe the vic dropped it when he was attacked.”
    She nodded. “I found it under the couch—it might have been dropped then kicked there during the struggle. Did you pull anything interesting from the recording?”
    Cooper shook his head. “Sorry. It must have been activated after the vic was already dead—there’s no sound of a struggle or any voices. You can hear some very faint breathing after the pause—the killer must have gotten closer to the recorder for a few seconds.”
    â€œProbably when he bent down to grab the laptop. Nothing else?”
    â€œSound of the door closing a minute later. The person who discovered the body must have shown up after the battery had run down—there wasn’t anything else on it.”
    â€œThanks, Cooper.”
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    Frank Tripp glared at the man on the other side of the desk. The man—editor Jeremiah Burkitt—glared back. Burkitt was short and paunchy, with a graying beard and jet-black hair that looked as if it had been polished with shoeshine.
    â€œI did what I had to,” growled Burkitt.
    â€œYou left the scene of a murder,” Tripp growled back. “You know what that looks like?”
    â€œYou’re the cop. You tell me.”
    Tripp leaned forward in his chair. “You are getting on my last nerve, Mister Burkitt. I have some questions, and you’re going to answer them. Or I will haul you down to the station in handcuffs and stick you in a room with no air-conditioning while I take my own sweet time deciding just what I’m going to charge you with.”
    â€œAsk away.”
    â€œWhy were you at Hiram Davey’s home at six in the morning?”
    â€œI told you. He owed me a column and I was there to collect. He wasn’t answering his phone, so I went to see him in person.”
    â€œAnd when there was no answer you just walked in?”
    Burkitt snorted. “When one of my writers misses a deadline, they know there’s no place to hide. If the door had been locked I would’ve broken it down.”
    â€œTell me exactly