Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3) Read Free

at three. Know where it is?”
    “I have the address. What kind of car should I look for?”
    “Forget the car. You’ll know me immediately.”
    “Really? How?”
    “I’m the handsomest detective on the force, a cross between Paul Newman and Walter Matthau.”
    “And modest as all get out.”
    “Yeah, that’s me. See you at three.”
    He hung up, stood, stretched and looked out his window over a blustery October Washington day. “Almost winter,” he muttered as he rolled down his shirt sleeves. The right cuff flapped open. He’d noticed the missing button while dressing that morning but was running late. Besides, all his other shirts were missing buttons too. He slipped on his suit jacket and went to a small cracked mirror hanging crookedly near the door. Some days he felt younger than his forty-six years, but this wasn’t one of them. His reflection in the cracked glass didn’t help. He’d put on weight and was developing jowls beneath prominent pink cheeks. Loss of thin, brown, straight hair had advanced enough to cause him to start parting it lower so that the long strands could be combed up over the balding spot. “Moonface,” he’d been called in high school. He smiled as he turned to retrieve the Sutherland folder from his desk. No matter what age had done to him, he looked better now than when he was in high school. At least the acne was gone.
    Five minutes later he was seated around a small, scarred conference table with his superior, Dorian Mars, four years younger and possessing a master’s degree in criminology and a Ph.D. in psychology. Also at the table were four other detectives assigned to the Sutherland case.
    “This is the most important case in my career in law enforcement,” Mars said, puffing on a pipe. He looked atTeller. “It’ll be a pressure cooker until it’s solved, Martin. They’re already talking bottom line. Which means our collective neck if we don’t handle things well…”
    Teller nodded solemnly and adjusted the buttonless cuff beneath his jacket sleeve. He opened the Sutherland folder and said, “We’ll stay in the kitchen, Dorian, no matter how hot it gets,” wishing he was able to curb a recent tendency to mimic his boss’s penchant for the well-worn phrase.
    ***
    He was late getting to the Sutherland house, a huge and sprawling white stucco and red brick home set back on four acres in Chevy Chase. The original house had reflected the Federal style of architecture popular during its construction in 1810. Numerous additions and wings had transformed it into a more eclectic dwelling.
    Parked in front of a long, winding driveway was an MPD squad car. Two uniformed officers stood next to it. Another car was parked twenty feet further up the road. Teller pulled his unmarked blue Buick Regal behind the second vehicle. The door opened and Susanna Pinscher stepped out, a nicely turned pair of legs leading the way. Teller was immediately aware of her beauty. He judged her to be about five feet four inches tall but she carried herself taller. Clean, thick, black, gently wavy hair with errant single strands of gray fluttered in the breeze. Her face was definite and strong, each individual component prominent yet in sync with the others. She was fair, with full, sensuous lips etched in red, large expressive green eyes defined by an appropriate amount of mascara, rouge so expertly applied to her cheeks that the color seemed to emanate from within.
    She extended her hand and smiled. He took it and said, “Sorry I’m late.”
    “It’s okay. I just got here. You are Martin Teller?”
    “You didn’t know me right off?”
    She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Definitely Paul Newman. I don’t see the Matthau, though.”
    “I think we can work together, Miss Pinscher. Come on.”
    They walked up the driveway. He allowed her to get ahead of him and took in her figure. A subtle pleated plaid skirt swung easily from her hips. She wore a blue blazer over a white