Natalie's Revenge Read Free Page A

upstairs in his room. Dead.”
    Syd seemed genuinely shocked. “Lord-a-mercy! He came in tonight around nine, a bit later than usual. He had a Jack Daniels on the rocks and left just before ten. Alone.”
    “Thanks.” Syd would make a far better witness than the tight-assed twerp on the desk. Frank gave Syd his card. “If you think of anything important, call my cell anytime.”
    “I will.” Syd shook his head. “I feel bad for Mr. Peterson’s wife.”
    Frank did too. He wasn’t looking forward to telling Mrs. Peterson her husband was dead, but that was his next task.
    Any kind of luck, he’d catch a few winks afterwards.
    _____
     
    The notification did not go well. Not that Peterson's wife got hysterical. Far from it. When he arrived, the Peterson house was dark. He had to ring the bell four times before Mrs. Peterson opened the door. Wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, she glared at him, clearly angry.
    “Why are you ringing my bell at this hour?”
    He flashed his ID badge. “I'm sorry, but I have some unpleasant news. Could I come in?”
    She grudgingly allowed him into the foyer, but not a step farther.
    “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Peterson, but your husband was found dead in his room at the Hotel Bienvenue tonight.”
    He studied her reaction. The spouse is always a prime suspect, but other than a slight widening of her eyes, she remained stone-faced.
    “What happened? A heart attack?”
    “No. Someone shot him.” That got a reaction, but not the one he was expecting.
    She laughed, an ugly guttural sound. “Someone shot Arnold?”
    Working homicide he'd done plenty of death notifications, had watched people react in different ways. Some got hysterical. Some just cried quietly. He'd even seen people react with nervous laughter, but Mrs. Peterson’s laugh was different. Cold. Verging on vindictive.
    A voice from upstairs called, “Mom? What’s wrong?”
    “Go back to bed, Louisa. I’ll be up in a minute.”
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Peterson, but I need to ask you a few questions.”
    An outraged expression froze her face. “Now? I can’t talk to you now. I’ve got three children upstairs and I need to figure out how to ...” She took a deep breath. “How to tell them their father is dead.”
    “Have you been home all evening?”
    “Yesss,” she hissed. “Now please leave. If you have questions, come back at nine o'clock. By then I’ll have things under control.” Another a curt laugh. “Well, a semblance of control anyway.”
    The not-so-grieving widow practically shoved him out the door.

CHAPTER 2
     
    Thursday, July 24, 2008   8:30 a.m.
     
    Frank slid a mug under the LavAzza Espresso Machine spout and waited for his caffeine hit. His kitchen was tiny. When he ate meals here, which he seldom did, he ate in the living room. Two dirty coffee mugs sat in the sink. On the counter, the inexpensive toaster oven and microwave he’d bought at Wal-Mart stood against the white ceramic tile backsplash. The espresso maker, a concession to his Italian heritage, had cost a small fortune. But the strong full-bodied flavor was worth it. Hell, the aroma alone was worth it.
    After mailing the monthly alimony check to his ex-wife, he could barely afford the condo, but paying a mortgage beat pissing rent down the toilet. The two bedrooms were small, but he loved the living room, spacious and airy with high ceilings and a window overlooking the street. With his espresso mug in hand, he stood at the window. Two floors below, unaware he was watching, people were scurrying off to work and whatever tasks awaited them.
    He sipped the espresso, relishing the rich taste, recalling the time his mother had jived his father about the fancy Italian-made espresso machine he'd bought for her. “The Italians make beautiful cars and typewriters and appliances, but half the time they don’t work.”
    His father said nothing. Salvatore Renzi knew when to keep quiet.
    A Maureen O’Hara look-alike, Mary Sullivan had beguiled