Murder in the Aisles Read Free

platter, hopefully earning him a place in the captain’s good graces. At least as good as they could get for the captain.
    On the drive over he tried to remember the last time he’d been in a library. He couldn’t remember. Probably college. And all the librarians were kinda old and weird. That much he did remember. This Swift broad was probably no different—old, dumpy, gray-haired with thick glasses. Yeah, he’d wrap this one up quickly.
    Mark pulled up in front of the stately building and grimaced. Libraries . As he exited his late-model Ford Taurus he spotted a uniformed officer at the front door and a big sign posted in the window: Closed for Customer Visits Today . Appointments Only .
    He jogged up the slushy steps and winced as his right knee squealed in protest. War wounds, he mused, slowing down to a barely noticeable limp. One of many. He still held the scars from the bullet that pierced his shoulder in a drug bust while he still worked in Vice; the surgically precise knife wound that ran six inches across his belly; various cuts and bruises and of course the knee that he’d hurt in an eight-block chase of a suspect. When he finally caught up with the guy, he was so pissed from having to run, he dived on the wily bastard in a football tackle, slamming the suspect and his knee into the pavement. Both of them howled, but Mark held on until his partner finally caught up. Six weeks in rehab and he was back on duty, but this time he’d gotten his transfer to homicide. His rationale was that dead bodies were highly unlikely to shoot, stab, fight back or send you on a chase through the streets of D.C.
    He reached the top step.
    â€œWhadda we got?” Rizzo flashed his badge at the officer.
    â€œOld dead guy. Found about an hour ago by one of the employees. We’ve sealed off the area.” He stomped his feet, trying to keep warm.
    Mark nodded. “Good deal.” He jerked his chin toward the glass doors. “Who we got inside?”
    â€œOne of the officers from the squad, library security guard and the lady who called it in—a Ms. Swift.”
    Mark patted him on the shoulder as he crested the last step. “You come on inside. Cap wants to keep this under the radar. No need to start raising eyebrows with 5-0 standing on the steps.”
    â€œYes, sir,” he said, more than happy to get out of the biting weather.
    Mark pushed through the glass doors and flashed his shield to the security guard, who looked older than the building. He turned around in a slow circle taking in his surroundings. He’d never seen a library this big before. To think he’d spent the better part of his adulthood in D.C. and hadn’t set foot in there mildly amazed him.
    â€œLotta books in here, huh?” he murmured in awe.
    â€œWe’re the largest repository of books in the world,” the guard said with pride.
    â€œIs that right.” Mark unbuttoned his wool coat. “Here to see a Ms. Swift.”
    The wizened old man, who stood no taller than the center of Mark’s wide chest, looked him up and down as if he could actually stop Mark if he decided to breeze right by him. He stared at the badge through thick bifocals. “Mmm. Young to be a detective,” he said, his tone suspect.
    Mark took a look at his nametag. Larry Purvis.
    â€œLook, Mr. Purvis, I need to see Ms. Swift. Now. So you can either get her for me or I’ll find her myself.”
    â€œKeep your shirt on, young man. There’s been a murder here you know. Can’t be too careful.”
    Mark slowly shook his head. “Right, which is why I’m here.”
    â€œOf course.”
    Mark blinked several times. Where was he, at the library or in the fuckin’ Twilight Zone?
    They both turned at the sound of sharp heels beating a steady rhythm against the cool marble floors.
    His appraisal started at her feet and slowly traveled up legs that didn’t seem to end, the dip in