Hot Flash by Carrie H. Johnson Read Free Book Online

you now,” he said, bowing his way out of the foyer, I suspected embarrassed by my dress. “You have a wonderful evening.”
    â€œThanks for looking out, Mr. Kim. You have a good evening, too.” I watched him tiptoe down the flower-lined walkway. Flowers he had planted. As he picked his way down the steps and turned left to his house, I realized that in the twelve years of being neighbors that was the most conversation we had ever had. I did not even know where Mr. Kim was from or whether he was born in the United States, never mind how he became a martial arts expert or knew so much about plants, or came to teach English. I had a key to his house so I could use the dojo anytime I wanted. Yet I hardly knew the man. I promised myself I would visit Kim in the very near future and have a real conversation.
    I closed the door and started upstairs to call Calvin, when the doorbell rang and there was a flurry of banging.
    â€œMuriel, it’s Calvin!”
    I rushed down to rescue my door. He burst in.
    â€œWhat happened?” he asked. “You left me hanging on the phone. First a loud noise, then the phone went dead.”
    â€œI’m fine, Calvin, I’m fine. The door flew open is all. Travis must have left it open when he went out. Scared the hell outta me, though.” The explanation sounded plausible, but my tongue felt pasty saying it. I liked Calvin, a lot, but he had not reached the share-all level yet. It occurred to me how quickly he had arrived at my home.
    Calvin closed the door and moved closer.
    â€œI was on my way up to call you.” I gestured upward and realized I had my gun in hand. No wonder Kim had hurried away. I set the gun on the end table. In a single motion, Calvin kissed me, scooped me up, and carried me upstairs like Richard Gere scooped up Debra Winger at the end of An Officer and a Gentleman . Top of the stairs, straight ahead. I shook my head and groaned when my cell phone rang. Calvin held me captive for a few rings, then succumbed to my downturned lips and sent me hustling.
    â€œDid I get you at a bad time, my dear?” Laughton.
    â€œAre you spying on me?”
    â€œWe got another dead body.”
    â€œPlease tell me this isn’t happening. Not now.”
    â€œNow, partner. Wade Taylor, shot in the back of the head at his pad. Looks like a professional hit.”
    â€œSo why do we need to be at the scene?”
    â€œSo far I see three holes in the wall in the bedroom and hall that appear to be bullet holes and two fired cartridge cases across the room.”
    â€œGive me a half hour. I’ll be there.”

    Marcy Taylor dead in the a.m. and Wade Taylor in the p.m. produced the makings of a bad movie, I thought. Laughton’s voice had no play in it this time. Postponing my trip to Nareece’s house in Boston for the weekend seemed a must-do, considering Laughton’s closeness to the case. I also figured Marcy and Wade’s deaths had just jumped to the front of our caseload.
    This time, when I arrived at the scene, there were no reporters, no police lights, no commotion except what was going on inside the house. Chestnut Hill was a wealthy neighborhood in Northwest Philly. Folks here would not stand for the smear. The location on Germantown Avenue in Northwest Philly was a beautiful, old, three-story brick house, built around the early 1900s and worth half a million dollars, I guessed. Chestnut Hill was one of Philly’s oldest settlements with many historic homes. I would say it was about the only wealthy neighborhood left inside the city besides its abutters, Mount Airy and Manayunk. I wondered what Wade Taylor did for a living.
    When I went inside, I was directed to the basement. It was like descending into a dungeon; dirt floor, protruding stone walls, and a low ceiling, low enough for me to check the danger to my head at the bottom of the stairs. A section of the floor was dug up. Dirt, rocks, and rumble were piled