Blood Hunt by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online

was the right side of San Diego for La Jolla. Jim had been found in La Jolla.
    He lay down on the bed, which seemed solid and floating at the same time. He closed his eyes, just for a minute.
    And woke up to late-afternoon sun and a headache.
    He showered quickly, changed his clothes, and made a telephone call.
    The police detective was very obliging. “I can come to the hotel if you like, or you can come down here.”
    “I’d appreciate it if you could come here.”
    “Sure, no problem.”
    He took the elevator back down to the ground floor and had some coffee in the restaurant, then felt hungry and had a sandwich. It was supposed to be too early for food, but the waitress took pity on him.
    “You on vacation?”
    “No,” he told her, taking a second cup of coffee.
    “Business?”
    “Sort of.”
    “Where you from?”
    “Scotland.”
    “Really?” She sounded thrilled. He examined her; a pretty, tanned face, round and full of life. She wasn’t very tall, but carried herself well, like she didn’t plan to make waitressing a career.
    “Ever been there?” His mouth felt rusty. It had been a long time since he’d had to form conversations with strangers, social chitchat. He talked at the weekenders, and he had his family—and that was it. He had no friends to speak of; maybe a few old soldiers like him, but he saw them infrequently and didn’t keep in touch between times.
    “No,” she said, like he’d said something humorous. “Never been outside South Cal, ”cept for a few trips across the border and a couple of times to the East Coast.“
    “Which border?”
    She laughed outright. “Which border? Mexican, of course.”
    It struck him how ill-prepared he was for this trip. He hadn’t done any background. He thought of the seven P‘s, how he drilled them into his weekenders. Planning and preparation. How much P&P did you need to pick up the body of your brother?
    “What’s wrong?” she said.
    He shook his head, not feeling like talking anymore. He got out the map the car-rental man had given him, plus another he’d picked up from a pile at reception, and spread them on the table. He studied a street plan of San Diego, then a map of the surrounding area. His eye moved up the coast: Ocean Beach, Mission Beach, Pacific Beach, and La Jolla.
    “What were you doing here, Jim?”
    He didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud until he saw the waitress looking at him. She smiled, but a little uncertainly this time. Then she pointed to the coffeepot, and he saw that he’d finished the second cup. He nodded. Caffeine could only help.
    “Mr. Reeve?” The man put out his hand. “They told me at reception I’d find you here. I’m Detective Mike McCluskey.”
    They shook hands, and McCluskey squeezed into the booth. He was a big fresh-faced man with a missing tooth which he seemed to be trying to conceal by speaking out of the other side of his mouth. There were shoots of stubble on his square chin where the razor hadn’t done its job, and a small rash-line where his shirt collar rubbed his throat. He touched his collar now, as though trying to stretch it.
    “I’m hellish sorry, sir,” he said, eyes on the tablecloth. “Wish I could say welcome to San Diego, but I guess you aren’t going to be taking too many happy memories away with you.”
    Reeve didn’t know what to say, so he said thanks. He knew McCluskey hadn’t been expecting someone like him. He’d probably been expecting someone like Jim—taller, skinnier, in less good all-around shape. And Reeve knew that if the eyes were the window on a man’s soul, then his eyes were blackly dangerous. Even Joan told him he had a killer’s stare sometimes.
    But then McCluskey wasn’t what Reeve had been expecting either. From the deep growl on the telephone, he’d visualized an older, beefier man, someone a bit more rumpled.
    “Hell of a thing,” McCluskey said, after turning down the waitress’s offer of coffee.
    “Yes,” Reeve said. Then, to