The Sleeping and the Dead Read Free Page B

seen?
    Adam waved for me to follow him. I started putting my cameras away, but as Wiley and his assistant turned the body over, I almost dropped the Leica.
    I hurried across the stage and grabbed Adam by the elbow, pulled him behind some scenery so the other cops wouldn’t overhear. “Adam,” I said. “I know this kid.”
    I had met him about five hours ago.

 
    3
    A LIGHT MIST WAS FALLING through the sycamore trees. The driveway was packed with cars of all makes, models and conditions, from brand-new Acuras and BMWs to rusted-out junkers with hocked titles and plastic sheeting duct-taped over busted windows. The house rose up in the darkness beyond the driveway, bowed and swollen, light streaming from every window like a house afraid of its own shadows. Adam and I climbed the steps to the porch.
    â€œYou met the victim here?” he asked. I nodded and shook the water from my hair. “How do you know Michi Mori?”
    â€œHe promised to sponsor an exhibition of my photography.”
    â€œIs that why you were here today?”
    â€œYeah.” I couldn’t tell him the truth, so I pushed the glowing yellow doorbell button.
    â€œDid you hear about that cop?” he asked as we waited for someone to answer.
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œThat accident over on Union.”
    â€œWhat about him?” I knew the one he was talking about, and I knew what Adam was going to say before he said it.
    â€œDied at the scene. Damn shame. He had three kids. He was a good cop.” He checked his cell phone for messages. “I guess the lawyers will be all over it.”
    â€œI took some pictures of the accident.” I didn’t tell him I had seen his dead cop. What was the point? He’d only use it as another excuse to hassle me about coming to meetings.
    He said, “Ring the doorbell again.” He pointed at the Leica hanging around my neck. “Is that new? Looks expensive.”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œWhere’d you get that kind of money?”
    â€œI got a good deal on it.”
    â€œStolen?”
    â€œNo, it isn’t stolen. You think I’d buy a hot camera?”
    â€œJust asking.”
    â€œWell don’t.”
    The door finally opened and we were greeted by an elderly gentleman, about five feet tall, with a thick wavy pompadour of ivory-white hair sweeping back from his tanned and botoxed forehead. He blinked his dark, almost-Chinese eyes slowly and smiled just with his lips. “May I help y’all?” he drawled.
    Adam gave a surprised little suck of air and said, “Jesus! You’re Cole Ritter!”
    â€œMy reputation precedes me.” He wore a red silk smoking jacket, but his legs were naked, bandy as a flyweight boxer’s legs, deeply tanned and utterly hairless. His feet were bare, the trimmed nails shiny and healthy. He held a martini glass between the index and middle fingers of his bejeweled left hand.
    Adam turned to me. “Jesus, Jackie, this is Cole Ritter! Do you know who he is?”
    â€œCole Ritter, I presume.”
    â€œOn the button,” Cole said.
    Adam grabbed his hand and shook it, almost upsetting his martini. “I’ve loved your work since I Can’t Remember When! ”
    â€œMuch obliged, I’m sure.” Cole gradually extracted his hand from Adam’s fist. He took a sip of his martini and glanced at me.
    â€œI was a theater major in college,” Adam said. “My senior year, I played Sonny in Forrest Park .”
    â€œAh yes,” Cole smiled at me. “I wrote that play when I was in high school.”
    â€œThat’s what’s so incredible about it! Such maturity of style, such depth of characterization! Jackie, do you have any idea who this man is?” Adam was giving a disgusting fanboy performance. I thoroughly enjoyed it.
    â€œI’ve heard of him,” I admitted.
    â€œHigh praise indeed,” Cole said.
    â€œHe’s only like the