Dead Fall Read Free Page A

asked, her voice as sweet and mellifluous as warm honey.
    â€œYeah, but then anything he would later say or hear would be deemed entrapment. Don’t worry, I’m not a cop and I’m not here to cause Sheridan any problems. I’m a friend.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œJoe Hunter.”
    Her eyelids closed a fraction. “I’ve heard of you.”
    â€œGood things, I hope?”
    She smiled, but didn’t enlighten me. She checked that no one else was about to enter the shop. From inside the smoked glass wasn’t as opaque. People moving past the windows appeared as dim shadows, but none looked to be interested in entering. “Wait here, I’ll go and see if Sheridan can see you.”
    With that the woman went through the interior door and closed it behind her, but not before I noticed that her white uniform smock was cut inordinately short and revealed a splendid set of dusky legs set off by six inch heels. I briefly wondered what the rest of the uniform concealed, before scolding myself to keep my mind on the job.
    Less than a minute later the woman was back. “Would you like to come through?” she said, holding open the interior door for me, leaning up against the frame.
    â€œThank you,” I said and went forward. The woman didn’t move, and I had to squeeze past her. We were so close I got a pleasing waft of her perfume, and felt the warmth rising from her. Her eyelashes batted up at me and I could see my face reflected in her dark irises. My earlier resolve about never making out with a prostitute wavered slightly, and I told myself that the beauty was a receptionist, not one the actual girls. But I was kidding myself, and so it seemed was the beauty, because I heard her chuckling at my expense before the door swung shut behind me.
    Sheridan Brown was waiting for me at the end of a corridor. Doors to the left and right had been closed, and from behind them I could hear moans of pleasure and the gentle strains of relaxing music. All that you’d expect to hear in a massage parlor. Yeah, right.
    Sheridan showed me into her office and I sat on a leather chair against one wall. She perched herself on her desk, crossing long legs as she studied me in turn. Sheridan was in her early fifties now, but there was no denying her beauty. She was part Cuban, part African American. She had a delicious tilt to her eyelids, and full lips, straight black hair to her shoulders as sleek as a panther’s hide. The only thing to spoil her looks was the sadness I caught behind her green eyes.
    â€œYou’ve heard about Candice?’ I said.
    Sheridan nodded. “I’m expecting the police around anytime soon. I wasn’t expecting you to show up, Joe.”
    â€œNormally it would be none of my business, but I think Candice’s death is tied to something else I’m looking into.”
    She surprised me by saying, “William Murray’s suicide?”
    â€œWe both know it wasn’t suicide,” I said, “the same way we both know that Candice wasn’t murdered by a random killer.”
    Sheridan didn’t reply. She leaned behind her and picked up a pack of Marlboros and flipped them open. She thumbed a cigarette to her lips, then paused, looking at me. She took the cigarette out of her mouth. “Would you like one?”
    â€œI’d kill for one, truth be told. But I’ve given it up. Three years, three months, and twelve days since I had my last one.”
    â€œYou actually keep count?”
    â€œI was told things would get better, but I think it was lies. I still crave a cigarette every day. I keep count of how long it is since I gave up just so I can prove the doctors wrong.”
    â€œWhy not give in to the inevitable? You’ll return to them sooner or later.”
    â€œI’m a sucker when it comes to inevitability,” I agreed. “But this is one thing I’m sticking with. My other