Fall Guy by Carol Lea Benjamin Read Free Book Online Page A

kitchen door, I could no longer hear the birds singing. And there was that smell again, reminding me of where I was, and why. The only sound in the house was the cylinder of the lock clicking into place. And the sound of Dashiell, his nose welded to the bathroom sill.
    I followed Brody to the couch. We sat on opposite ends, as far apart as possible without breaking off the arms. I didn’t lean back on the blanket. Neither did he. As if death might be catching from the things the deceased had left behind. I thought I’d bring rubber gloves with me when I came back. I was sure I wouldn’t be sorry to have them.
    â€œThe apartment should be unsealed by late afternoon tomorrow,” he said. “Or Thursday at the latest. I’ll call you tomorrow and give you the exact time. It’ll be okay to”—he turned and looked toward the kitchen—“to use the bathroom then.”
    â€œI only came by this morning to see where it was,” I said, my forehead as pleated as Dashiell’s gets. “I could see the garden from the front door, so I walked through. By. And went out. That’s how I met Jin Mei. I didn’t go into the apartment, of course.”
    Brody nodded. “No problem.”
    So why was I acting as if I’d been sent to the principal’s office? I wondered. He wasn’t even wearing a uniform, so it couldn’t be that.
    â€œIsn’t what Detective O’Fallon did a bit unusual,” I said, “cleaning his gun in the bathroom rather than at his desk or at the table?”
    â€œNo, ma’am. Not particularly.”
    â€œBut…”
    â€œOne could sit on the edge of the tub, have the kit on the vanity, avoid the chance of getting oil on the carpet.”
    One could ? What the hell was that supposed to mean?
    â€œSo you’re saying he was fastidious?”
    â€œMa’am?”
    â€œRachel’ll do,” I told him. “I was asking if he was…” And then I stopped, shook my head, changed my mind. I wanted to know which way he fell after he was shot, whether he fell backward and hit his head—and did it matter at that point?—or if he crumpled forward, landing on the bath mat or the tile, the gun skittering across the floor, stopping when it hit the door. But what difference did any of that make now? He cleaned his gun at the desk, he cleaned his gun in the bathroom. The man was dead. I needed to inform his sister of his untimely demise, get her here to pick up whichever of his possessions she wanted to keep, settle his estate and get on with my life. I didn’t need to be here torturing Brody with my questions. Except for one more.
    â€œWhat’s with the gym bag?” I asked. “Was he going somewhere? I mean, was he planning to, before?”
    â€œThat’s Parker’s. Or so he says. When the uniforms arrived, he was busy packing that with his things.”
    â€œBefore they told him he had to leave?”
    â€œYes. And when one of the officers examined the contents of the bag, they found some things they suspected didn’t belong to Mr. Parker.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œA silver ashtray, some gold coins, two wristwatches, a small silver box with the initials ‘T.W.O.,’ and some clothes that may or may not have belonged to Parker.”
    â€œAnd the winter coat?”
    â€œI imagine he’d planned on taking that as well.”
    â€œHe and Tim were the same size?”
    â€œWouldn’t matter to Parker.”
    â€œYou mean he had sticky fingers? It was there, he’d take it.”
    â€œ Has sticky fingers,” he said. “Don’t turn your back when he’s here packing up. And don’t be afraid to question anything he claims is his. Anything you’re unsure of. Anything that has value.”
    What difference would it make if he took Tim’s clothes? I thought. Tim didn’t need them any longer. But for Brody, it was the