Deadfall (Nameless Detective) Read Free Page A

looking out their windows.”
    I didn’t answer him.
    He swung around, saying, “Leonard, I asked you—” and broke off when he saw that I wasn’t Leonard. He stiffened a little, not much, showing more surprise than anything else: he wasn’t the panicky type. “Who are you?”
    I told him my name. It didn’t mean anything to him; I would have been surprised myself if it had. He was in his thirties, slight, sandy-haired, with a wispy mustache and gentle blue eyes and lashes that had been shaped and lengthened with mascara. A small circle of gold dangled from his right ear. He was wearing Levi’s, a blue pullover sweater, a pair of beaded moccasins. The way he moved, the way he held himself, the lilt of his voice—all of those suggested a woman trapped in a man’s body. Now I knew why Leonard Purcell was not married.
    “Are you a friend of Leonard’s?” he asked.
    “No. I’m afraid not.”
    “One of his clients?”
    “No. Mind telling me your name?”
    “Tom Washburn, if it’s any of your business. What are you doing in my house?”
    “You live here too, then?”
    He made an impatient gesture. “Certainly I live here. Now what’s going on? Where’s Leonard?”
    I took a breath, let it out slowly. Telling somebody about the death of a friend, a loved one, is never easy. Doesn’t matter if you know the person or not—it’s never easy. I said, “There’s been some trouble here. I’m a detective and I happened in on it. I wish I hadn’t.”
    “Trouble? What do you mean, ‘trouble’?”
    “Your housemate is dead, Mr. Washburn. He was shot a few minutes ago.”
    Washburn stood there for a couple of seconds without moving; it took that long for the words to penetrate, to mean anything to him. Then they rocked him, as if some invisible force had struck him a sharp blow. He put a hand up to his mouth and said between the splayed fingers, “Dead? Leonard?”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Somebody shot him?”
    “I’ve already called the police. They’ll be here any minute—”
    “Who? Who would do a thing like that?”
    “I don’t know. I heard the shots and I saw the person run out of the house, but I didn’t get a good look at him.”
    Washburn still had his hand over his mouth; he was swaying slightly now, with his eyes squeezed shut. I was afraid he might faint, but that didn’t happen. After a time he said in a low, tremulous voice, “Where is he? I want to see him.”
    “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    “I want to see him. I have a right to see him.”
    “Mr. Washburn, for your own sake—”
    His eyes popped open and he said with sudden savagery, “Goddamn you, I want to see him! You tell me where he is! Tell me or I’ll scratch your fucking eyes out!”
    He meant it. Shock and grief and confusion make people irrational. I said, “In the dining room,” and he spun away and ran through a big beam-ceilinged living room, the rear part of which was raised by three steps. I went after him; I did not want him touching anything, by accident or for any other reason. But he didn’t go into the dining room. He stopped when he got to the archway and saw what lay beyond. Stopped, and then screamed —a shrill keening cry full of anguish and horror that put goosebumps on my arms and across my shoulders. He turned blindly, stumbling, his face all twisted up. I caught his arm to keep him from falling. And he made a little whimpering noise and came in against me, threw his arms around my neck and buried his face against my chest and began to weep hysterically.
    I didn’t know what to do. For a couple of seconds I just stood awkwardly, letting him hold onto me; there was a lump of something dry and bitter in my throat. Then I put an arm around him, turned him a little so that I could walk with him. He came along without resistance. I could feel the tremors racking him, paroxysm after paroxysm, so that his sobbing breaths came out like hiccups. I got him to a blocky Spanish couch set at an