right away.
“Janet came in a lot. Flirted a lot, a nice, funny woman. But she left alone, always. Only once talked about a guy at work she was attracted to, I don’t remember his name. The night I saw her last, she got a headache after two beers and left. I already talked to the cops, but I’m sure nothing will come of that.”
“That’s all?” he asked.
“That’s all,” she answered.
Peter got up to go.
“Come back and see us sometime?”
“It’s a date,” he promised.
Out the door and into the street, on his way back to the State House parking lot, where he had left his car, he thought of her, and then forgot her, storing only what she told him. He had driven tonight, which was rare, but he was in the mood for music and had picked up the latest Seal disc. He hoped there was no ticket on the Volvo.
The night was quiet; and then it was not.
Sirens pierced the air and Peter winced. His ears were sensitive. An ambulance and police car sped past, rounded the corner, and stopped in front of the garage beneath the secretary of state’s building. Peter was right behind, following on foot. He couldn’t help it. He survived by curiosity and a sort of prescience that told him which things deserved his attention. This was one of them.
Two cop cars were already there when this latest arrived with the ambulance. The paramedics were getting out their gurney and wheeling it inside. He hoped that Janet Harris would not be on it when they returned. It seemed he had spent several lifetimes delivering bad news, and he was tired of it.
“Octavian.” The voice belonged to Ted Gardiner, a lean, black plainclothes detective with few manners but a lot of charm. He smiled at Peter. They weren’t good friends, but there was respect there, and that was about as close as Peter usually got.
“What a surprise,” Gardiner said. “Chasing ambulances now?”
“Thought I’d get a look at your next unsolved mystery,” Peter quipped, a trait the cop brought out in him.
“Come on in.” Gardiner ushered Peter through the door. “It’s actually pretty interesting. I . . . Hey, you know, you need to get out more. A little Florida vacation. You need a tan.”
“Are you going to fill me in on what you’ve got, wise-ass, or should I guess?”
Ted smiled. He knew about Peter’s aversion to the sun, a medical thing, he’d been told, and he was just sarcastic enough not to care whether it upset the PI or not.
“Touchy, touchy. Just concerned about your health, Peter. You look like a fucking vampire.”
“Asshole,” Peter said, laughing at Ted and with him, “I am a vampire.”
Ted smiled at him and then mustered up his serious face, which was rare. They had arrived at the scene, and the paramedics were bagging the body. Peter saw that the car door was open, and a lot of photographs were being taken of the interior. He looked at the corpse with the back of its head gone.
“Martin, Roger Francis,” Gardiner informed him. “Age, thirty-three. Occupation, yuppie. Cause of death, pistol fired approximately six inches from the victim’s forehead. Clean shot. Roger was nice enough to roll down the window for the guy. Motive, definitely not robbery—cash and credit cards still in the guy’s wallet. Unless, of course, there was something of significant value in Roger’s briefcase, because it seems our man rifled through that particular piece of baggage. The other ambulance had come and gone by the time you showed up.”
“Other ambulance?”
“The janitor walked in on the thing. From what we know, he probably saw the guy who did it. But he won’t be talking to anyone for a day or so. Bullet in the chest can do that to a guy.”
The paramedics were about to zip the black bag holding Roger Martin’s body.
“Mind if I take a look?”
“As long as these boys don’t mind.” Ted motioned to the paramedics, who stepped back to allow Octavian access to the body.
He bent down, looking closely at the wound, and
“Janet came in a lot. Flirted a lot, a nice, funny woman. But she left alone, always. Only once talked about a guy at work she was attracted to, I don’t remember his name. The night I saw her last, she got a headache after two beers and left. I already talked to the cops, but I’m sure nothing will come of that.”
“That’s all?” he asked.
“That’s all,” she answered.
Peter got up to go.
“Come back and see us sometime?”
“It’s a date,” he promised.
Out the door and into the street, on his way back to the State House parking lot, where he had left his car, he thought of her, and then forgot her, storing only what she told him. He had driven tonight, which was rare, but he was in the mood for music and had picked up the latest Seal disc. He hoped there was no ticket on the Volvo.
The night was quiet; and then it was not.
Sirens pierced the air and Peter winced. His ears were sensitive. An ambulance and police car sped past, rounded the corner, and stopped in front of the garage beneath the secretary of state’s building. Peter was right behind, following on foot. He couldn’t help it. He survived by curiosity and a sort of prescience that told him which things deserved his attention. This was one of them.
Two cop cars were already there when this latest arrived with the ambulance. The paramedics were getting out their gurney and wheeling it inside. He hoped that Janet Harris would not be on it when they returned. It seemed he had spent several lifetimes delivering bad news, and he was tired of it.
“Octavian.” The voice belonged to Ted Gardiner, a lean, black plainclothes detective with few manners but a lot of charm. He smiled at Peter. They weren’t good friends, but there was respect there, and that was about as close as Peter usually got.
“What a surprise,” Gardiner said. “Chasing ambulances now?”
“Thought I’d get a look at your next unsolved mystery,” Peter quipped, a trait the cop brought out in him.
“Come on in.” Gardiner ushered Peter through the door. “It’s actually pretty interesting. I . . . Hey, you know, you need to get out more. A little Florida vacation. You need a tan.”
“Are you going to fill me in on what you’ve got, wise-ass, or should I guess?”
Ted smiled. He knew about Peter’s aversion to the sun, a medical thing, he’d been told, and he was just sarcastic enough not to care whether it upset the PI or not.
“Touchy, touchy. Just concerned about your health, Peter. You look like a fucking vampire.”
“Asshole,” Peter said, laughing at Ted and with him, “I am a vampire.”
Ted smiled at him and then mustered up his serious face, which was rare. They had arrived at the scene, and the paramedics were bagging the body. Peter saw that the car door was open, and a lot of photographs were being taken of the interior. He looked at the corpse with the back of its head gone.
“Martin, Roger Francis,” Gardiner informed him. “Age, thirty-three. Occupation, yuppie. Cause of death, pistol fired approximately six inches from the victim’s forehead. Clean shot. Roger was nice enough to roll down the window for the guy. Motive, definitely not robbery—cash and credit cards still in the guy’s wallet. Unless, of course, there was something of significant value in Roger’s briefcase, because it seems our man rifled through that particular piece of baggage. The other ambulance had come and gone by the time you showed up.”
“Other ambulance?”
“The janitor walked in on the thing. From what we know, he probably saw the guy who did it. But he won’t be talking to anyone for a day or so. Bullet in the chest can do that to a guy.”
The paramedics were about to zip the black bag holding Roger Martin’s body.
“Mind if I take a look?”
“As long as these boys don’t mind.” Ted motioned to the paramedics, who stepped back to allow Octavian access to the body.
He bent down, looking closely at the wound, and
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