The Drowning Pool Read Free

alone. Evie may be fourteen and old enough to baby-sit for Jean, but it’s getting late. I’m sure they’re both asleep—it’s just that I worry.”
    “Of course, I understand.” And she did. Mike Gardner was a responsible parent. It was one of the things she found so attractive about him—that and the fact that he was a studly hunk.
    Kim wondered if it made her superficial that she found him so physically attractive. Mike Gardner was a tall, dark-haired man with rock hard abs and a powerful build, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped. She couldn’t imagine why Detective St. Croix had referred to him as old. Mike was only in his late thirties. Of course, to a woman like the detective, who was likely in her middle twenties, he might appear mature. But Kim suspected Detective St. Croix was baiting him, being deliberately antagonistic. Kim had to wonder about the detective’s motives. But she had enough of her own problems to deal with.
    She and Mike exchanged a final kiss and parted at her door. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.
    “Count on it.”
    “I certainly will,” she said with a smile. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning, but for some reason, she didn’t feel the slightest bit tired. Mike had a strange effect on her.
    Kim wished her feelings for Mike weren’t so confused and uncertain. Did he want more from her than she could ever give him?
     

TWO
     
    Before returning to La Reine Gardens the next day, Gardner began going over lab findings. The basic facts were deceivingly simple and could be concisely summarized. Richard Bradshaw, male Caucasian, somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-five years of age, was found floating in the pool fully clothed. He had received a hard blow to the head. However, the victim’s death was caused by a stab wound, a lethal puncture just above the sixth thoracic vertebra. The murder weapon was most likely a knife, judging from the nature of the wound. Estimated time of death, somewhere between six and nine p.m. of the previous evening.
    “They haven’t pinned down the exact time of death,” St. Croix noted critically. “And there’s nothing here as to where the guy was killed. You think the killer concealed the body somewhere, then came back after everyone was gone and dumped the vic?”
    “Real possibility,” Gardner agreed, “but I’m keeping an open mind. Right now, I’ve got no opinions.”
    The swim club looked different in the light of day, as though nothing sinister could possibly have occurred there. Cushiony chaises and rustic redwood tables shaded by yellow and white umbrellas beckoned for occupants. Finely cultivated flowers and shrubs grew from decorative brick encasements. The tennis courts glistened smartly in the smoldering August sun. The pool itself was seductively inviting; the water very clear, more aqua than the pictures he’d seen of the Mediterranean. Gardner, already sweating through his shirt in the tropical forest heat and humidity, wished he could heed the siren’s call, just jump in and feel the cooling waters wash over him. He turned regretfully away.
    Ms. Rhoades and her staff were waiting for them. There were still police technicians on the premises continuing with their clinical investigation. Otherwise the place was deserted. Ms. Rhoades began by introducing her helpers. There was an anorexically thin girl named Beth whom she introduced first, patting the girl’s hand in a friendly gesture. Then there were two male lifeguards, both young, not yet out of their teens. The taller of the two was blond and muscular. He looked as if he belonged on the California surfer scene rather than a pool club in New Jersey. The other boy was dark and much slighter in build. His manner toward Ms. Rhoades was deferential, and although he didn’t look much like a lifeguard, Gardner saw that he would be the kind of worker she would prefer.
    “You’re Sonny?” Gardner asked, not waiting for Ms. Rhoades to continue with what was an