Deception (A Miranda Murphy Thriller) Read Free Page A

time, there was nothing extraordinary about this scenario.
    It didn’t have to be a one night stand, by the way. They might have been long time lovers. How about this scenario: Hackett had found out that Flynn had been cheating on him and pulled the trigger? Or maybe Flynn announced he had met his true love and was going to leave Hackett. Miranda certainly couldn’t rule out this possibility. Love made people do crazy things, she knew that from her own experience.
    On the other hand, Jeff’s sexuality might have nothing to do with this murder. Could money be the motive? After all, they said that money was the root of all evil. Had Hackett killed Flynn to avoid repaying a debt? Harris said Hackett didn’t have any debts, which sounded like the truth: it wasn’t very often that a successful businessman and an heir to a three-hundred-million dollar fortune owed money to a smalltime crook. But who said Flynn had remained a smalltime crook? For all she knew, he could have been Hackett’s drug dealer or bookie enforcer.  
     
     
    2.
    “How are you doing, Ms Murphy.” Dillon turned out to have a very deep, manly voice. He offered his left hand for a handshake. “You see,” he waved his right hand, which was wrapped in an elastic bandage, “that’s what happens when you have a chauffeur—you forget how to drive. I took a car for a spin in Italy three months ago and totaled it within half an hour.” He smiled. “My right hand is still throwing tantrums on me. Doctors are saying it should be as good as new in a month or two, but I don't believe them. They think I’ll be pissed if they tell me the truth. They’re wrong, the truth doesn’t upset me. By the way, have you been to Italy, Miranda? Rome is such a beautiful city.”
    Now that Dillon had mentioned his driving misadventure, Miranda realized that the unerasable half-smile on the millionaire’s face might have been the result of the damage to the facial nerves incurred in the car accident. And the small scar under Dillon’s left eye had probably been earned in that crash, too.
    Miranda looked around Dillon’s office, which was as opulent as she had expected it to be, with its custom made furniture, an amazing Oriental rug, gorgeous silk drapes, and paintings. For the price of the furnishings one could easily buy a two bedroom condo in South Boston.
    “This is Claude Monet,” Dillon said when he noticed the detective fix her eyes on the painting hanging on the wall behind his desk. “I love impressionists.” He took Miranda by the elbow and led her to the painting. “I paid a million bucks for it five years ago. Now it’s worth one and a half million. My buddies tell me to hang a copy and put the original in a safe, just in case, but I’m not going to do it. I don’t derive pleasure from simply owning a masterpiece. I need to look at it, admire it.”
    The door opened, and Dillon’s assistant entered the office, holding a tray with two cups of coffee and a glass sugar dispenser.
    “Put it on the table and go.” Dillon gestured Miranda to take a seat on the leather couch across the room from the desk and then sat next to her. “I have a few more paintings at home, I can show them to you later if you’d like.” He picked up a cup from the coffee table and took a sip. “That damn car crash really shook me up, to be honest with you. I could have died in it, you know. The funny thing is, even though I hate talking about this unfortunate event, I somehow always end up doing it.”
    “I see you’re doing okay now.”
    “Yes, I’m all right.” Dillon nodded. “Let’s get to business. As I understand, you found a dead man in my son’s house. And I suppose you suspect Jeff of killing him.”
    “You’re right, Mister Dillon. At the moment, your son is a suspect in this case.”
    “I see. If I were you, I’d probably have the same suspicions.” Dillon pointed at Miranda’s cup. “Please drink your coffee. It’s very good, trust