The Perfect Suspect Read Free

through town. Moonlight traced the waters of Lake Dillon outside her window. Twenty minutes later she was in Breckenridge heading up the mountain toward the ski area. The condo she had rented was hidden in clusters of lodgepole pines, and the smell of pine drifted inside the Ford. She parked in the garage underneath, a voluminous cavern lit by dim overhead bulbs and bisected by rows of parked vehicles. The sound of her door slamming bounced around the metal and concrete. She rode the elevator to the third floor, let herself into the condo and leaned against the door a moment. She was safe. No one had seen her driving into the garage, making her way upstairs. Had she planned all the details, they could not have worked out so well. She turned on the table lamp, then slumped onto the sofa, giving in to the crushing sense of exhaustion.

    The ringing of her cell cut through the silence.
    Ryan blinked into the light flaring from the lamp a moment, trying to get her bearings. The night came back to her in a rush, like photos flashing in front of her. Finally she managed to pull the cell from her bag, and check the readout. Headquarters. She waited for two more rings, trying to still her breathing and control the erratic rhythm of her heart, before she answered. “Hello,” she said. Her voice sounded mute and thick.
    â€œRyan?” The sound of Crowley’s voice drilled into her. “Did I wake you up?”
    â€œWhat do you think?” Her heart had started up again. “What time is it?” She tried to bring the face of her watch into focus. 5:45 a.m.
    â€œSorry, your vacation’s over. I need you here.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” My God. The woman on the sidewalk must have gone inside David’s house and found his body! But how had she gotten in? The door was locked. Maybe she looked through a window, saw David on the living room floor, and called the police.
    â€œHigh-profile shooting,” the sergeant said. “David Mathews shot in his home last night.”
    â€œMathews, shot?” She clasped the cell hard against her ear. “Is he dead?”
    â€œTwo bullets in the chest, one in the thigh. Somebody made sure he was dead. I need you here.”
    She managed a gulp of air. She felt as if she were in a race, trying to stay ahead of the man on the phone. What was he saying? She should investigate the case? It was so absurd she had to jam her fist against her mouth to keep from laughing. After a moment she heard herself say: “I have a three-day vacation, Sergeant.”
    â€œWilliams and O’Keefe are tied up with a shooting in Montbello. Bustamante and Greeves are still in L.A. investigating a possible connection to the gang shooting and the muggings in LoDo. I don’t expect them back until tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat about the other detectives?” The sense of absurdity expanded around her, as if she had stepped into a funhouse and was surrounded by an array of mirrors that reflected distorted and grotesque images. “You can find somebody else.”
    â€œNot with your experience. This is the highest profile homicide we’ve handled in ten years. The press will be all over this, and that includes the national press. Television, radio, bloggers, you name it. We can’t have any mix-ups. I need an experienced detective in charge, and you are it. How soon can you get down here?”
    â€œI’m in Breckenridge,” she heard herself saying. The grotesque images in the funhouse mirrors seemed to be closing in. “I need a couple of hours.”
    â€œI’ll expect you in an hour and a half,” Sergeant Crowley said.

2
    Catherine sat up with a start, her skin cold and prickly. She flipped the switch on the bedside lamp and blinked into the circle of light, trying to banish the blackness of the nightmare. The heavy noise of an explosion, the rise of wailing sounds in the distance and the sense that she was spiraling