Sohlberg and the White Death Read Free Page B

the chair upside down to inspect whether anything could’ve been hidden on or inside the chair.
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
    It’s always easy to act like a cool and collected professional when the homicide victim is a stranger.
    A storm of ugly thoughts pelted Sohlberg on the journey home. His professional detachment seemed to have evaporated somewhere on the road between Heyriux and Lyon. He was surprised by his overwhelming desire—a blood lust—for the deadly revenge that he wanted to impose upon those who had killed Azra Korbal.
    Azra Korbal’s murder was personal.
    Who had the audacity to kill the translator who had worked so closely with him?
    Her boyfriend was an unlikely suspect.
    Azra Korbal’s death was an outrageous affront that cried out for retaliation.
    Avenging thoughts rose in his mind like towering thunderstorms.
    A few minutes later the storm was spent. Sohlberg decided that his best revenge would be to expose, capture, and arrest the cowardly ghouls who were responsible for her death.
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
    Sohlberg arrived home at 7:30 AM. He didn’t want to break the upsetting news to his wife. She had become good friends with Azra Korbal. The exhausted detective sneaked into the library and began reading the list of all cases that Azra had worked on.
    An hour later he heard Emma Sohlberg start her shower. Afterwards he kept reading while she had breakfast. He had less than an hour before she would come into the library to check her e-mails on the computer. He read at a maniac’s pace.
    A wave of tremendous relief came over Sohlberg when he finished reviewing the list of cases. Azra Korbal had never personally participated in any face-to-face meetings with the Confidential Informant known as Ishmael. Nor had she translated any written or verbal communications to or from Ishmael—who spoke decent English and passable French.
    The relief was temporary. He now had to inform Fru Sohlberg of the murder. And he had to start reading hundreds of case files in which the late Azra Korbal had done translations.
     
    ~~~
     
    The Sohlbergs met in the hallway.
    “Oh. You’re home. What was the emergency?”
    He said nothing. The words simply would not come to him.
    Emma Sohlberg’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong . . . is it someone we know?”
    The detective’s throat constricted until he could barely speak. “It’s Azra . . . she’s . . . she’s dead.”
    “What happened?”
    “Someone shot and killed her.”
    Tears welled up in Fru Sohlberg’s eyes. “Who did it? . . . Her boyfriend?”
    “No.” Sohlberg hugged her tightly. “We don’t know yet.”
    She cried out—as in pain—and this greatly upset him.
    “What’s wrong?” he said.
    “I feel you’re in danger.”
    “My Love . . . I’m safe . . . her death had nothing to do with me.”
    “But it does. You spent a lot of time with her. I feel something horrible is around us. You . . . we . . . are in danger.”
    “Please . . . My Love . . . let’s not get paranoid.”
    “Paranoid? . . . Someone’s been calling us over and over the past couple of days. I thought it was some prank. But now I’m not so sure.”
    “What? . . . Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “Because you’re never around. At first I thought it was some kids playing a prank. They called and let the phone ring and ring until I answered . . . then they would keep silent and never hang up. It gives me the creeps to think about it now. I’m the one who had to hang up. I once had to place a call and they were still on the line ten minutes later.”
    “I’ll tell Laprade . . . he’ll look into it.”
    “What for?” Emma Sohlberg shook her head with disgust. “Do you think that they called from a number that can be traced to them?”
    “No. Not unless it was some dumb kids.”
    “They weren’t. I’m pretty sure that I once heard them whisper something. . . .”
    “What?”
    “I couldn’t really make out what they were saying. It was hard to tell . . . it was a man’s voice .