Dead Mann Walking Read Free Page A

veneer. I didn’t have to pick it up to see it was stuffed with hundreds. Decent amount for a liveblood detective. For a chak? A fortune.
    â€œI don’t know what sort of cases you usually get, but I’m certain this isn’t one of them. Your police background makes you perfect for what I need. I don’t care if you lied to the jury, but I can’t take the risk that you’d lie to me.” He moved his shoulders in what seemed an apologetic fashion, then lowered his voice to a boyish hush. “So, did you kill your wife?”
    â€œHonestly?” I told him. “I don’t remember.”
    â€œIn the court transcripts you say you were innocent.”
    â€œDid I? I’ve read them a few dozen times, but a chak’s memory, right? I get flashes, but the actual moment? A total blank.”
    That’s why I never went looking for her real killer. I’m afraid I’ll find out it’s me.
    He zeroed in on my eyes. Like that would help. Idiot, you can’t read chak eyes. It’s like watching someone zoned in front of a TV or video game. They don’t call it a zombie look for nothing. You can’t tell a thing by looking at our eyes.
    I met his gaze nice and steady, but it was like that lame wolf whistle I gave Misty, going through the paces out of politeness . . . acting, like a friend of mine says, as if , in this case as if I were still alive. Turgeon’s eyes were a weird baby blue, the color so consistent he must have been wearing contacts. Funny thing to be vain about, but beauty’s in the eye of the beholder.
    Finally, he said, “I believe you,” as if we were in his no-girls-allowed tree house, making some kind of pact.
    A man of many pockets, he pulled a photo from one. It was a head shot, posed, showing a square-headed forty-year-old with close-cropped curly hair, a few lines on his face, and a decent smile. The top button of his blue shirt was loose, the collar not completely ironed, so whoever he was, he wasn’t anal. Into himself enough to pose for a head shot, though.
    â€œFrank Boyle,” Turgeon said. “His father, Martin, was a close friend of my firm’s founder, Mr. Trent Derby. Martin Boyle passed away last week from lung cancer and left all his money, a considerable sum, to his eldest son. I have to find him and let him know about his inheritance.”
    It was starting to make sense.
    â€œLet me guess. Frank’s a chak, right? On the streets somewhere, no known address?”
    Turgeon nodded. “Exactly.”
    â€œEven so, why hire me? Why not a liveblood, or go to the cops?”
    He rubbed his hat again. “It’s complicated. He has a living brother and sister who are both contesting the will. They’re people of influence who wouldn’t think much of . . . getting rid of a chak to preserve their fortune. Mr. Derby is concerned that they may have already reached out to the local police and any real . . . uh, liveblood detective in the area. Sorry, no offense.”
    â€œNone taken. I get your point. They’d never hire a chak, right?” I drummed my fingers on the envelope and tried to look as if I were thinking about it. “You’re leaving out the other complication. Frank might be feral.”
    Turgeon made a funny little swallowing sound. “Naturally, that’s a concern.”
    â€œNatural’s got nothing to do with it.” I laid my palm on the envelope. “I get paid whether he is or not, long as I find him for you before the sinister siblings?”
    He nodded at the money as if embarrassed it was too little. “That’s for accepting the job. I’ll pay the same if you find him first, feral or not. Time is of the utmost. You have to start now. I need . . . I . . . expect immediate action. They can’t be allowed to find him first.”
    I flipped through the bills. It was more than I’d guessed. I looked up into Turgeon’s eyes, trying