Bloody River Blues by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online Page A

smelled after-shave. Something dry. He had been close to cops a few times in his life and could not recall smelling after-shave on a law enforcer.
    Sloan said, “What’s this all about?” His eyes now alighted on the Italian detective’s and remained fixed.
    The cop asked in response, “Who’re you?”
    “Tony Sloan.” When they registered no response he added, “I’m the director.”
    The WASP turned away from him. “If you’ll excuse us we’d like to talk to Mr. Pellam here.”
    “If there’s some problem, I’m in charge of—”
    “There won’t be a problem, sir—” he glanced at Sloan as if he were a nagging panhandler “—if you’d just give us a few minutes alone with Mr. Pellam here.”
    Sloan gave him an astonished glance then turned to Pellam. “I’ll get you that house, Tony.”
    The director wandered off to a motorized camera crane, a Chapman Apollo, the boom extended and the camera platform nearly ten feet above the ground. Sloan paused in the shadow of the boom and glanced back at the two men now standing on either side of Pellam. Several grips and gaffers noticed Sloan’s frown and stopped what they were doing to watch the three men.
    The WASP stepped closer. The scent of lime was very strong. “The Post-Dispatch did a story about this film.” He spoke with the same stilted formality thatmarks conversations between cops and civilians all around the world.
    “It’s a crime movie? About bank robbers?” The Italian detective said this as if people would not think of breaking the law if movies didn’t put the idea into their heads.
    “Armored car robbers,” Pellam corrected.
    “We’ve never had a movie made in Maddox,” he added solemnly. “I hope you portray the town in a good light. We’ve had our share of trouble but that’s not our fault.”
    “No, it isn’t,” said the WASP.
    “What exactly,” Pellam asked, “do you want?”
    “Last night there was a shooting. We’re wondering if you could give us some information about it.”
    “Around here?”
    “It happened on Third, near the river.”
    He tried to remember if he had heard anything. He couldn’t recall but with the tape deck playing and the Cardinals on TV and the noise of five men playing poker, a lot of sound outside would get missed. Pellam shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you.” He started to walk away.
    The WASP detective put a firm grip on Pellam’s shoulder and laughed in surprise, like a schoolteacher insulted by a student. “Hey, hey, hold up there a minute. We’re not through yet.”
    Pellam shrugged the hand off and turned around. “I can’t help you.”
    “Well, we think you can, sir. A policeman was shot and critically injured and two people were killed. Vincent Gaudia and a Miss Sally Ann Moore.”
    “I’m sorry. That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
    “People are killed and you don’t care?” the WASP asked. His hands, palms up, rose at his sides.
    “I don’t mean that. I just mean I don’t know who they are.”
    The Italian was saying, “The car? The Lincoln? Does that ring a bell?”
    “No. I . . . Oh, wait. There was this guy got out of a big car, maybe it was a Lincoln. I didn’t really notice. I’d bought some beer. He bumped into me.”
    “Could you describe him?”
    “Was he the guy who was killed?”
    “Description?”
    “Not too tall, stocky, balding, a beard or mustache, I think. Mid or late thirties.”
    “Race?”
    “White.”
    “Any scars or markings?”
    “I don’t remember any.”
    “What was he wearing?”
    “A jacket, I think. Jeans. Dark mostly.”
    “He was alone in the Lincoln?”
    “No. There was somebody else. They drove off after a while.”
    “They?”
    “Well, he .”
    “Could you describe him?”
    “I didn’t see him.”
    The detectives didn’t exactly exchange glances but their eyes swung like slow pendulums toward each other.
    Sloan called, “Pellam, you gonna get me that house, or what?”
    The