Dead Hot Mama by Victoria Houston Read Free Book Online

eyes teasing. In his red and black plaid flannel shirt, black turtleneck, and heavy dark brown Filson wool pants, Ray looked the quintessential woodsman—hearty, happy, and healthy. Yep, thought Osborne, if ever a man had a heart that could warm a room—it was wild and crazy Ray.
    Lew lifted an eyebrow towards the young forensic specialist who had an amused look on his face. “Never trust a man with a fish on his head, Bruce—or as we say in the department when we discuss friend Ray here: ‘Misdemeanors today, felonies tomorrow.’”
    Ray, pleased with all the attention, sat down to pull off a pair of ancient Sorel boots. He stretched out his long legs and wiggled his toes in their heavy socks. Everyone waited. Lew and Osborne knew from experience that the man could not be hurried, particularly not when he had something you needed.
    “Spoil sport,” he grinned at Lew as he bent forward to extend a hand to Bruce Peters. “Pleased to meet you.” Ray flashed Bruce a generous grin. Too generous. Osborne did not like what he saw.
    “C’mon, Ray, cut the razzbonya behavior.” Lew looked away in disgust.
    “Sorry, couldn’t resist.” Ray walked over to Osborne’s sink, reached to pull a coffee cup from the rack by Osborne’s old Mirro coffeepot and, leaning forward, spit half a dozen white worms into the cup.
    Bruce was intrigued. “What’s the deal? I see plenty worms in my line of work, but you got me on this one.”
    “Waxies,” said Ray, shoving the cup at Bruce who backed away. “I keep ‘em in my cheek so they don’t freeze. Walleyes been hitting on these like crazy—you ice fish?”
    “Nope,” said Bruce.
    “Good, I’ll get you out there.”
    “No, you won’t, Ray—the man’s got a big job ahead. The fishing will just have to wait, I’m afraid.” Lew thrust her hands into the pockets of her unzipped parka. “As soon as you’re warmed up there, let’s get that shack of yours down to Terry.”

eight
    Modern fishing is as complicated as flying a B-58 … several years of preliminary library and desk work are essential just to be able to buy equipment without humiliation.
    —Russell Baker
    “Man, that guy is hard to work with,” said Terry Donovan, shaking his head as Lew, with Osborne and Bruce close behind, hurried towards him across Kobernot’s dock.
    “I told him to wait for me,” said Lew.
    “Well, he just drove off, Chief. And I had to force him to shoot the site like you wanted, too. He took plenty of photos of the victim, but try to get him to do any more than that—I practically had to sit on the guy.”
    “But he got good body shots?”
    “I think so. He brushed all the snow away. You should take a look, Chief. That girl is well endowed. Very well endowed. Pecore said it’s all her, too.”
    “He would know,” said Lew.
    “Our coroner can be unique in his approach,” said Osborne in answer to a quizzical look from Bruce.
    “‘Inept’ is the word, not ‘unique’,” said Lew.
    “Ah,” said Bruce, “I’ve heard about him from my colleagues—”
    “Yeah? Well, you’ve got a few jabones down there, too,” said Lew. Bruce’s eyes widened, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
    Pecore got no respect from Lewellyn Ferris. He was sloppy and lazy, and she despised him for it. More than once the chain of custody on a key piece of evidence was aborted, effectively destroying the department’s case against a perpetrator, because of his poor record keeping. Worse than that was Pecore’s habit of letting his two golden retreivers accompany him into the autopsy room. More than one Loon Lake resident whose dearly deceased required a postmortem exam made sure to accompany the body just to prevent any unwelcome canine interest.
    But the position of coroner in Loon Lake was a political appointment—something about which Lew could do nothing except complain. Pecore had been coroner for twenty-seven years, and he had no intention of giving up until he qualified