Broken Angels by Richard Montanari Read Free Book Online Page A

this?” Byrne pointed at the photograph, to a beltlike loop hanging from Hornstrom’s jacket.
“That’s called a dogbone sling.”
“It’s made out of nylon?”
“I believe it’s called Dynex.”
“Strong?”
“ Very strong,” Hornstrom said.
Jessica knew where Byrne was headed with this line of apparently in-
nocent, conversational questioning, even though the belt around the victim’s neck had been a light gray, and the sling in the photograph was a
vibrant yellow.
“Thinking about climbing, Detective?” Hornstrom asked. “ God, no,” Byrne said with his most winning smile. “I have enough
trouble with the stairs.”
“You should try it sometime,” Hornstrom said. “It’s good for the
soul.”
“Maybe one of these days,” Byrne said. “If you can find me a mountain with an Applebee’s halfway up.”
Hornstrom laughed his corporate laugh.
“Now,” Byrne said, standing, buttoning his coat. “About getting
into the building.”
“Sure.” Hornstrom shot his cuff, looked at his watch. “I can meet
you out there, say, around two o’clock. Would that be okay?” “Actually, now would be much better.”
“Now?”
“Yeah,” Byrne said. “Is that something you can take care of for us?
That would be super .”
Jessica stifled a laugh. Hornstrom, clueless, looked to her for help.
He found none.
“Can I ask what this is all about?” he asked.
“Give me a ride, Dave,” Byrne said. “We’ll talk on the way.”
    by the time they reached the crime scene the victim had been moved to the medical examiner’s office on University Avenue. Tape circled the parking lot, down to the riverbank. Cars slowed, drivers gawked, were waved on by Mike Calabro. The food-service truck across the street was gone.
    Jessica watched Hornstrom closely as they ducked under the crime scene tape. If he was in any way involved in the crime, or had any knowledge of it whatsoever, there would almost certainly be a tell, a behavioral tic that would give him away. She saw nothing. He was either good or innocent.
    David Hornstrom unlocked the back door of the building. They stepped inside.
“We can take it from here,” Byrne said.
David Hornstrom held up a hand as if to say, “Whatever.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
    the large frigid space was all but empty. A few fifty-gallon drums were scattered about, a few stacks of wooden pallets. Cold daylight peered in through the cracks in the plywood over the windows. Byrne and Jessica roamed the floor with their Maglites, the thin shafts of light being swallowed by the darkness. Because the space had been secure, there was no evidence of break-ins or squatting, no telltale signs of drug use—needles, foil, crack vials. Moreover, there was nothing to indicate a woman had been murdered in this building. In fact, there was little evidence that any sort of human activity had ever taken place in this building.
    Satisfied, at least for the moment, they met at the rear entrance. Hornstrom was just outside, still on his cell. They waited until he clicked off.
    “We may need to get back inside,” Byrne said. “And we’re going to have to seal the building for the next few days.”
Hornstrom shrugged. “It’s not like the tenants are lining up,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “If there’s anything else I can do, please don’t hesitate to call.”
The standard crock, Jessica thought. She wondered how cocky he would be if they dragged him down to the Roundhouse for a more detailed interview.
Byrne gave David Hornstrom a business card and repeated his request for contact information for the previous agent. Hornstrom grabbed the card, jumped into his car, and sped away.
The last image Jessica had of David Hornstrom was the license plate on his BMW as he turned onto Flat Rock Road.
HORNEE1.
Byrne and Jessica saw it at the same moment, looked at each other, then shook their heads and headed back to the office.
    back at the Roundhouse—the police administration building