Before She Dies by Mary Burton Read Free Book Online

here a lot but I haven’t seen much of her the last six months. She does something with computers.”
    “She ever use a credit card?”
    “Sure, I guess, but it’s been a while since she’s been here. I’m gonna have to dig.”
    “Would you do that?” Rokov said.
    “Yeah, sure. Why not.” She flicked the edge of the card. “I’ll call you.”
    They thanked the woman and moved back down the street toward the car. “Let’s stroll down the street and see if we can find Lowery’s car.”
    “The Toyota?”
    “Sure.” Sinclair took the north side of the street and Rokov the south side. They walked a block and a half when Rokov spotted the silver Camry. Sinclair crossed the street. “This the car?”
    “Could be.” On the front seat was a briefcase. The cup holders between the seats held two empty cups. “He’s lucky no one smashed the window to get the briefcase.”
    “Maybe he was in a hurry to get to the bar.”
    “Let’s pay him a quick visit.”
    “Will do.”
    The detectives walked back to their car and for an instant Rokov nearly cut to Sinclair’s door.
    “If you go for my door, Danny-boy, I’m breaking your fingers,” Sinclair said.
    Rokov held up his hands. “I learned my lesson.” When the two had first started working together, Rokov had opened Sinclair’s car door. She’d demanded to know which medieval century he’d just returned from. He’d laughed, blaming the door-opening habit on his parents’ old country manners. They’d settled on a compromise. He’d not open the car doors, but she’d allow the occasional shop door.
    Sinclair slid into the passenger side seat and Rokov behind the driver’s wheel. As he fired up the engine, the first television news van pulled up outside the crime scene. “The media is going to love this one.”
    “I’m afraid you’re right.”
    The drive to Lowery’s took minutes and soon the two were standing on the doorstep of his town house. Painted white with black shutters, the town house was modern but fashioned to look colonial. A planter on the front porch sported drooping marigolds and several cigarette butts.
    Rokov rang the bell once. After a pause he hit it again, and when that didn’t produce results, he banged with his fist. Finally, they heard shouts and the stumble of footsteps. The door snapped open.
    A man wincing against the sunlight greeted them with an angry glare. Dressed in suit pants and V-neck T-shirt, he had greasy dark hair that stuck up in the back and a dark beard shadowing his lantern jaw. A thick cross hung from a thick gold chain around his neck. “What the hell do you want?”
    Rokov held up his badge. “You Matt Lowery?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You at O’Malley’s last night?”
    “Sure. And if you’re here to ask, I didn’t drive home drunk. I took a cab.”
    “So we hear,” said Sinclair. She glanced beyond him to a foyer warmed with Oriental rugs and a landscape on the wall.
    “The bartender tells us he parked you outside on a bench last night.”
    He rubbed a bloodshot eye with his knuckle. “Damn near froze my nuts off while I was waiting.”
    “You see anything?” Rokov said.
    “I was pretty hammered.”
    “Unusual people? Odd sounds,” Sinclair prompted.
    Lowery shoved out a sigh as if pushing through the fog of his hangover. “I thought I saw someone at the old restaurant across the street.”
    Rokov tensed. “What did you see?”
    “Shit, I don’t know. It was late and dark, and like I said, I was hammered. I just figured it was a couple getting busy.”
    “A couple.”
    “Saw a man with a woman at his side on the top floor. They went in and a light came on.”
    “You see the guy or the woman?”
    “No. Just their outlines. He was holding her close and kissing her like he couldn’t wait to get her alone.” He sniffed. “So what’s their deal?”
    “She’s dead. And we think he killed her.”

Chapter 3
     
    Tuesday, October 19, 9 a.m.
     
    Charlotte Wellington’s heels clicked