Deadly Detail by Don Porter Read Free Book Online Page A

not.”
    “Is it against your religion to feed a girl twice in one day?”
    “Not if she’s a very good girl. Do you want room service? Your PJs are cute, but they might cause a stir in the restaurant.”
    “Give me thirty seconds.”
    “Want to go to the Wagon Wheel for barbecue?”
    “No, not tonight. I don’t want to hear music or see happy people dancing. I just want to eat something, have a glass or two of wine, and go right back to sleep.”
    “The perfect agenda—twenty-nine seconds left.”
    In five minutes we were seated in the restaurant downstairs, dark, intimate, but no music and no dancing. The pistol in my belt felt reassuring and the other patrons were mostly the dregs of the tourist trade, poised to head south and causing no trouble. I got a shock when I noticed it was nine o’clock, twenty-four hours since Stan’s death. It didn’t seem right that we were still alive, ordering dinner. How could we be doing normal things, looking like normal people? Angie’s world had just been ripped apart, mine had a terrible hole in it, and yet I was calmly asking the sommelier the vintage of their Pouilly Fuissé. I decided not to think. I’m pretty good at that. Angie was obviously struggling, emotions flitting like a kaleidoscope show, but she bit her lower lip and studied her menu. Life must go on, food must be ordered and eaten. Stan was there at the table with us, we just didn’t mention it.
    The lamb chops béarnaise were perfectly done, spicy crisp crust around pink centers, but somehow I didn’t seem to taste them. Angie was toying with her salmon steak. We were washing the food down with a bottle of the 1973, which should have been pure ecstasy, and Angie was surpassing her two-glass estimate, but she didn’t appear to be enjoying the wine either.
    I know, it’s utterly gauche to drink white wine with red meat. I don’t know who makes up those rules, but I suspect they’ve never tried it. I think it’s one of those truisms with no truth to it, but perhaps I don’t have a sufficiently educated palate. In any case, no wine police showed up to arrest me. It occurred to me that even though Angie appeared poised and sophisticated, she probably wouldn’t know the finer nuances of wine.
    Our little candle in its glass bowl made a soft flickering light across Angie’s features. Large, Kahlua-colored eyes reflecting candlelight, long black lashes that had not come from her makeup kit, high cheekbones and overall symmetry and harmony—she was exquisite. That thought led to how much Stan had to live for, and then to our campfire on the riverbank, the slender strength of her leaning against me for warmth and comfort.
    “Whatcha thinking about?” Angie was watching me over the rim of her wineglass, and I hoped she hadn’t caught me staring.
    “I’m thinking that we can’t wait around for killers to find us. We need to find them. Our best clue must be at the freight office. Tomorrow, I’ll try to wangle my way in, maybe ask for a job handling freight or something. If we knew who was picking up or dropping off freight at closing time last night, it might give us a starting point.”

Chapter Six
    At breakfast, I scanned the dining room and decided I was being paranoid. Threats never seem quite real on sunny mornings in happy crowds. Angie had wrinkled her nose and announced her intention of buying me some clean clothes. I handed her three twenties and she made that come-on gesture, like “hit me” in blackjack. I added another twenty. She kept waggling fingers. One more twenty. She nodded and folded the bills into a pocket.
    I started down Cushman toward Second Avenue, but turned right after two blocks, circled a block, and came back to Cushman. We were definitely not being followed. Angie spurned my suggestion of the Alaska Commercial Company so I dropped her at Monty’s upscale haberdashery. She waved and the store sucked her inside. I drove out to the airport.
    I parked in front of Interior