Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter by Lee Goldberg Read Free Book Online Page B

against one another, their decks leaning out over the crashing surf. Every winter, the waves would swallow a house or two, but the lots were never left vacant for long. Someone was always willing to build a new home where the sea had claimed one. If Mark's beach house was ever washed away, he would probably rebuild too, assuming he could find anyone crazy enough to offer him homeowner's insurance again.
    To his right were the ever-eroding hillsides of Santa Monica and the Pacific Palisades, held back by all kinds of elaborate retaining walls meant to keep the homes, apartment buildings, and parks along the cliffs from falling. But the slopes were littered with foundations, swimming pool tiles, exposed pipes, and ripped fencing, constant reminders of the futility of the costly efforts.
    Mark tried calling Stryker and got sent to his voice mail again. Irritated, he checked his own voice mail for messages, but Stryker hadn't returned his call. He did, however, get two recorded sales pitches, one offering him low rates on home refinancing and another from a stockbroker with some wonderful investment opportunities to share.
    He deleted the messages, recordings of recordings, and wondered if there was anybody who actually responded to cold calls from computers. His musing was a desperate attempt to distract himself from more pressing questions, and it didn't work.
    When he finally arrived at home after what seemed like days on the road, there was a large cardboard box waiting for him on his front porch, his mail stacked neatly on top of it. The box was about the size of the file-storage cartons used in offices. He wasn't expecting anything larger than a book from Amazon, so he assumed the box was a mail-order purchase that Steve had made.
    Mark and Steve lived together in the house. Steve had the beach-level first floor, which had all the conveniences of an apartment, including a small kitchen and a separate entrance. Mark lived on the street-level second floor, which had a gourmet kitchen, a dining room, and a family room that shared a sweeping view of the bay and opened to a wraparound deck with steps leading down to the beach.
    This arrangement allowed each of them privacy but more opportunity to spend time together than a father and a son with busy professional lives would otherwise have had.
    It was especially convenient for Mark, making it easy for him to pry into whatever investigations his son was working on.
    Mark moved the letters off the top of the box and was surprised to see his own name on the address label. The box was from Weldon, Jarvis & Swann, a Century City law firm that he was unfamiliar with.
    He carried the box inside, set it on the kitchen table, and opened it with a steak knife. The box was filled to the brim with bulging files, audiocassettes, and camcorder tapes. A white letter-sized envelope sat on top of the files.
    Mark opened the envelope and pulled out a handwritten note. The first line grabbed his full attention.
    If you are reading this, I'm dead.
     
     

CHAPTER FOUR
     
     
    Armed with a search warrant, Steve went from the scene of the fire to Stryker's condo in a sprawling Marina del Rey complex inhabited primarily by recently divorced men, upwardly mobile singles, flight attendants, and airline pilots.
    There was a reason the area was more popularly known as Marina del Lay.
    Steve flashed his badge and the warrant to the forty-five-year-old property manager, a man who apparently never got the news that Miami Vice had been canceled. He wore a blue T-shirt under a white linen blazer and parted his hair down the middle. He tossed Stryker's key to Steve and didn't bother to escort him to the condo.
    That was fine with Steve. He didn't need Sonny Crockett's uglier brother looking over his shoulder while he searched the place.
    It was a typical bachelor condo, dominated by a huge leather recliner that faced a sixty-five-inch television and an elaborate entertainment system. A leather couch, a glass-