New Hope for the Dead Read Free Page B

should have been a very happy junkie. It was, in all probability, an accidental overdose, perhaps from stronger heroin than Jerry was used to taking. One less junkie, that was all.
    But Hoke still wasn’t satisfied.
    “Take a look in the bathroom,” Hoke said to Sanchez. “I’ll call the forensic crew.”
    Hoke called Homicide from a white wall phone in the kitchen. The OIC of the forensic crew would inform themedical examiner, who would either come out or wait at the morgue. In either case, there would be an autopsy.
    Hoke lit a Kool, being careful not to inhale, and went outside. The two girls with the bicycles had disappeared. Hannigan, wearing her cap, sat in the front seat of the police car with the door open. Hoke wondered what was holding up Garcia and Mrs. Hickey. He cut across the lawn. As he stepped through a break in the Barbados cherry hedge between the two yards, the front door opened and Garcia came out, hanging on to a struggling, giggling woman. The woman’s face was reddened and blotchy and streaked with tears. She had a fine slim figure and was taller than Garcia. Her wide-set cornflower-blue eyes were rolling wildly. She was, Hoke estimated, in her late thirties. She wore a pair of green cotton hip-huggers, a yellow terrycloth halter—exposing a white midriff and a deepset belly button—and a pair of tennis shoes without socks. Her long, honey-colored hair was tangled. She stopped giggling suddenly, raised her arms above her head, and slid through Garcia’s encircling arms to the grass. With her legs spread, she sat there stubbornly, sobbing with determination.
    “Where’s your hat, Garcia?” Hoke said.
    “I left it in the house. It fell off.”
    “Get it and put it on. When you wear a sidearm with a uniform, you’re supposed to be covered at all times.”
    A short, matronly-looking woman with steel-gray hair edged shyly out of the doorway, making room for Garcia to reenter the house. She was wringing her hands, smiling, and her face was slightly flushed. She wore red shorts and a T-shirt. She was at least forty-five pounds overweight.
    “It’s all my fault, Lieutenant,” she said. “But I didn’t mean it.”
    “Sergeant, not lieutenant. Sergeant Moseley. Homicide. What’s all your fault? Mrs. Koontz, isn’t it?”
    She nodded. “Mrs. Robert Koontz. Ellen.”
    “What’s all your fault, Mrs. Koontz?”
    “Lorrie—Mrs. Hickey—was very upset when she foundJerry dead. She came over here, so I thought it would be a good idea to give her a drink. To calm her down a little, you know. So before I called nine-eleven, I poured her a glass of Wild Turkey.”
    “How big a glass?”
    “A water glass, I’m afraid.”
    “Did you put any water in it?”
    “No. I didn’t think she’d drink all of it, and she didn’t. But she drank most of it, and then it hit her pretty hard. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone ever get so smashed so quick.” Mrs. Koontz giggled, and then put her fingers to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Sergeant, I really am.”
    “You should’ve put some water in with it.”
    Sanchez knelt on the grass beside Mrs. Hickey, and handed her a wadded tissue to wipe her face.
    “Perhaps you and Officer Sanchez can get Mrs. Hickey back into your house?” Hoke said. “I can’t talk to her that way. Put her to bed, and tell her I’ll be back this evening. It’ll be best to have her out of the way when the lab group gets here anyway.”
    “I’m really sorry about her condition—”
    “Don’t be. The world would look better if everybody drank a glassful of Wild Turkey in the morning.”
    Hoke signaled to Garcia, who had retrieved his hat from the house. They walked to the police car, and Mrs. Koontz and Sanchez helped the sobbing Loretta Hickey into Mrs. Koontz’s house.
    There were a dozen area residents standing across the street on the sidewalk. The neighbors, muttering to one another, stared at the two houses.
    “Keep those people over there, Garcia,” Hoke