Innocent in Death by J. D. Robb Read Free Book Online

Mr. Foster. Doctors his drink thinking he’ll maybe get sick. Oops.”
    “Not entirely stupid.” They climbed into the vehicle, where both hissed out the breath the blustery cold had them holding.
    “Jesus, Jesus, why is there February?” Eve demanded. “February should be eliminated altogether for the good of mankind.”
    “It is the shortest month, so that’s something.” Peabody actually moaned as the heat came on. “I think my corneas are frozen. Can that happen?”
    “They can in fucking February. Let’s stick with Foster’s nearest and dearest first. We’ll go by their building, talk to a few neighbors. Most particularly the retired cop.”
    “Once a cop,” Peabody nodded, and began to blink cautiously to help her potentially frozen corneas thaw out. “If there was anything off going on, he’d probably have noticed.”
    Henry Kowoski lived on the second level of a four-story walkup. He opened the door only after scanning Eve’s badge through his security peep, then stood, taking her measure.
    He was a stocky five-eight, a man who’d let his hair thin and gray. He wore baggy trousers with a flannel shirt and brown, scuffed slippers. In the background, the entertainment screen was tuned to the Law and Order channel.
    “Seen your picture on screen a few times. In my day, cops didn’t angle for face time.”
    “In my day,” Eve countered, “the world’s lousy with reporters. Going to let us in, Sergeant?”
    It might have been the use of his rank that had him stepping back with a shrug. “Sound off,” he ordered the screen. “What’s the beef?”
    The place smelled like it had been just a little too long since laundry day, and not long enough since takeout Chinese night. The space was what realtors liked to call “urban efficient,” which meant it was one room, with a stingy bump for a kitchen, a short, narrow cell for a bath.
    “How long were you on the job?”
    “Thirty years. Last dozen of them out of the Two-Eight.”
    Eve searched her mind, pulled out a single name. “Peterson the L.T. when you were there?”
    “Last couple years, yeah. He was a good boss. Heard he transferred out a while back, moved clear out to Detroit or some such where.”
    “That so? I lost track. You’ve had some complaints about the tenants up above here? Fosters.”
    “That’s damn right.” He folded his arms. “Playing music—if you can call it that—all hours of the day and night. Stomping around up there. I pay my rent, and I expect my neighbors to show some respect.”
    “Anything else going on up there but loud music and stomping?”
    “Newlyweds.” His mouth twisted. “Deduce. What the hell do you care?”
    “I care since Craig Foster’s in the morgue.”
    “That kid’s dead?” Kowoski took a step back, sat on a ratty arm chair. “Fucked-up world. It was fucked up when I picked up my shield, and it was fucked up when I turned it in. How’d he buy it?”
    “That’s under investigation. Any trouble between them? Upstairs?”
    “With dove and coo?” He snorted. “Not likely. Sooner lock lips than eat, from what I’ve seen. If there was yelling, it wasn’t a fight—if you get me. The girl’s a noisy lay.” Then he puffed out his cheeks, blew out air. “I’m sorry about this. They pissed me off, I won’t say different, with the noise up there. But I hate hearing he’s dead. Young guy. Teacher. Had a smile on his face every time I saw him. Course if you’ve got yourself a woman looks like her who’s ready to bang you every five minutes, you’ve got a lot to smile about.”
    “How about visitors?”
    “Her mother was here a couple days ’round Christmas. Got some other young people who came in and out now and then. And a couple of loud parties. Both of them came home stumbling drunk New Year’s Eve, giggling like a couple of kids, shushing each other.”
    He shook his head slowly. “Fucked-up world. You’re wondering about criminal activity? You got yourself a couple of