Hangman by Faye Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page B

canvassing the area. I’ll bring in a couple of other Dees to help you out.” Decker continued to study the body. “Do we have any ideas who this might be?”
    “Wynona Pratt is making calls to the other station houses, finding out if any young women were reported missing.”
    Decker rubbed his forehead and turned to the photographer,George Stubbs, a gray-haired, stocky man in his fifties. “Are you done with her?”
    “Almost.”
    “Did you take close-ups of her neck?”
    “I took some. I can take more.”
    “Do that. Also take several snapshots of the knot on the ceiling where the cable wire is knotted.”
    Marge had gloved up and was studying the body, circling it like carrion. By law, no one could touch the body until the coroner’s investigator gave the okay. “This seems like a bloodless murder. No bullet holes, no stab wounds. No defensive wounds on her hands. Her nails aren’t chipped or scratched. Her French polish manicure is like new.” She looked up. “Happen to notice if Terry had on nail polish?”
    Decker thought back, trying to recall Terry’s hands. Then he noticed the hanging woman’s feet—bright red toenails. “When Terry first spoke to me, her feet were bare and I don’t recall her toenails being polished.” A pause. “She could have polished them later, after I left, but how likely is that unless she had it done in the hotel’s salon.”
    Marge said, “I’ll call up and ask.”
    He stared at the face. “It’s not her.”
    “You’re sure.”
    “Almost certain.” He regarded her features, then shook his head. “Do we have any forensics—semen, fingerprints, shoe prints, maybe some tire tracks in the area? Lots of dust and dirt, we should be able to pull something from the ground.”
    “I’ve been bagging garbage,” Oliver said.
    “Marking the spots?”
    Oliver held up some small orange cones with numbers on them.
    Decker said, “What have picked up?”
    “Mostly fast-food sandwich wrappers and junk from the roach coach. S.I.D. is on the way. So are a couple of investigators from the Crypt.”
    “If it’s a construction site, where’s all the activity?” Decker asked.
    “No activity because they’re waiting for the framing inspector to sign off. The appointment was for four o’clock in the afternoon. The foreman, who’s name is Chuck Tinsley, arrived here first and was going over the property just to make sure everything looked okay. He was waiting for the contractor and the architect to come down when he discovered the body. He called 911, then immediately called the contractor, who is on his way.”
    “Where’s Tinsley?”
    Marge pointed to a black-and-white. “He’s ensconced inside. Should I get him?”
    Decker nodded as his gaze continued to fix on the swinging corpse. His thoughts were meandering to several places, and none were good.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    T HE BACK PASSENGER door to the cruiser was open, a uniform standing in front of the space, keeping watch over her charge as well as the set of wheels. If Decker squinted, he could see a figure huddled in the backseat, his arms wrapped around his body as if his arms were straps on a straitjacket. As Decker approached the car, he nodded to the police officer and pointed to the open door. The cop bent down and spoke to the huddled man. When he emerged, Tinsley was average height, a tank of a fellow with long, muscular arms, dark eyes, a strong chin, and a face of controlled stubble. The officer led him to Decker, who glanced at her tag.
    “Thank you, Officer Breckenridge, I’ll take it from here.” He extended his hand to the foreman, whose complexion was ashen behind the darkening of beard. He had brown eyes, a Roman nose, and thin lips. His hair was a nest of cowlicks. He appeared to be in his thirties. “Lieutenant Peter Decker.”
    “Chuck Tinsley.” His voice was deep but held a slight tremble. “This is…I’m a little freaked out.”
    “I do this for a living and I’m a lot freaked out,”