Dead In Red by L.L. Bartlett Read Free Book Online

in his chair and
frowned. “Did I miss something?”
    “We’re going to get the license.”
    “We have plenty of time.”
    Brenda stood rigid, her steely gaze arctic
cold.
    “It’s good for sixty days,” Richard
continued, then cleared his throat and looked away. “Isn’t anybody
going to offer me a cup of coffee?”
    Brenda shook her head in disgust and turned
her attention back to the skillet. I took two more mugs from the
cupboard, pouring coffee for both of them.
    Truth was, I wished the four of
us were going to Holiday
Valley. Safety in numbers and all that crap. I had a feeling I was
going to learn something that Richard either wouldn’t want to know
or wasn’t likely to believe.
     
    * * *
     
    I had an hour
to kill before reporting to the bar and figured I may as well work
on the apartment. It didn’t look or feel like home and the only way
that was going to change was to unpack some of my stuff; the
furniture would come later. None of the boxes had been labeled by
the moving company Richard had employed to move my possessions from
Manhattan to Buffalo, but I didn’t need an itemized list. There are
some perks to having acquired a sixth sense.
    The kitchen seemed the best place to start,
and I found the boxes of silverware and dishes with no problem.
They’d sat in the garage for months, and who knew how clean the
hands were that had packed them, so into the dishwasher they
went.
    As I sorted the knives, forks and
spoons, putting them into separate sections of the silverware rack,
I considered all I knew about Walt Kaplan and the circumstances of
his death. Not much. There were shortcuts I could take to obtain
more information, and the easiest was to contact my ex-schoolmate
Sam Nielsen, a reporter for the Buffalo
News . The problem was, he’d want to deal and I didn’t
yet have anything to offer him.
    What the hell, I figured, and dumped in the
dishwashing powder, shutting the door with my foot. I hit the start
button then picked up the phone. It was answered on the first
ring.
    “Newsroom. Sam Nielsen.”
    “Hey, Sam, it’s Jeff Resnick.”
    A long pause, then, cautiously, “Long time
no hear from. Got any hot tips for me?”
    “Don’t play the slots at Batavia Downs.”
    His tone changed. “Okay, what do you
need?”
    “Have I ever called you for a favor?”
    “No, but there’s always a first time and
this is it, right?”
    The silence between us lengthened. I could
hear other phones ringing in the newsroom, the chatter of a busy
office.
    “Is there a story for me in this?” Sam asked
finally.
    “Maybe. Eventually. Tell me what you know
about Walt Kaplan’s death. He was the bartender in Williamsville
who—”
    “I know, I know.” Sam exhaled a long breath.
“Look, I didn’t write the piece.”
    “I know that. What’s the office scuttlebutt?
The articles only said stabbed multiple times and other wounds. How
many is multiple?”
    “Forty-six.”
    “Jeez. He must’ve really pissed somebody
off. Any defense wounds on the hands or arms?”
    “No.”
    “ A stiletto, wasn’t it?”
    “Yeah. That wasn’t reported in the media.
The fact you know means you’re looking into this, huh?” Sam knew
about my . . . gift. So far he hadn’t tried to exploit
it—or me—much.
    “Kind of. I took his job.”
    “And what does your intuition tell you about
his death?”
    “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
    “But you will some time in the future.”
    “Possibly. What about those other wounds
mentioned in the articles.”
    “Burns.”
    “What kind?”
    “Hey, I told you this wasn’t my story. But
I’ll tell you what, I’ll keep my eyes open. If anything develops,
I’ll let you know. By the same token—if you find out anything, I’d
better be the one you call.”
    “Guaranteed.”
     
    * * *
     
    Like at most
other bars, the Friday crowd at the Whole Nine Yards was larger and
more exuberant than the regular weekday group. And they wanted to
talk—about Walt.
    I