Idyll Threats by Stephanie Gayle Read Free Book Online Page A

“Chief? I appreciate you letting me help. I know you don't have to.” He gripped the doorframe, as if for support. Had I ever been that young or vulnerable? “Thanks.” He closed the door.
    Before I got through the vacation requests, there came another knock. The person who entered had military-short hair and a well-tailored suit. FBI? No. Not wary enough. “Chief Lynch,” he said. He straightened a millimeter. And then I got it. Like someone out of the 1950s, Wright had said. “I'm Detective Revere. Eastern District Crime Squad.”
    â€œWelcome to Idyll.”
    â€œThank you. I hoped we might meet for a few minutes to discuss the case. Then I can meet the team, get caught up.”
    â€œI'll take you to them.” His posture was impeccable, but my genes triumphed. I was taller by three inches, and stood close so he knew it.He said nothing as I walked him through the station, even when confronted by the three-foot-tall softball-league trophy, crowned with a jockstrap no one would claim and thus no one would remove.
    Finnegan sat at his desk. He tugged the world's ugliest brown tie and grunted into the phone. “Nah. Nah. Huh? Ugh. Okay.” He hung up.
    â€œFinnegan, meet Detective Revere. Where's Wright?”
    â€œTalking to the golf-course owner. Something about a surveillance camera.”
    Detective Revere thrust his hand out. Finnegan stood and shook it. We all looked at the board. Crime-scene pics and a recent photo of the victim were attached to it. Revere picked up a paperclip. “Has anyone ruled out accident?” he asked.
    Finnegan said, “We don't get a lot of drive-by shootings on the golf course.”
    Revere coughed and bent the paperclip's end. “I'm not suggesting the shooting was accidental. Just that she wasn't the target.”
    â€œWhat leads you to suspect mistaken identity?” I asked.
    He unbent the clip, straightening the metal into a line. “Just a hypothesis. She was out in the dark. The course isn't lit at night. I checked. It's possible she was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
    â€œI'd say she was definitely at the wrong place at the wrong time.” Finnegan said.
    â€œTime of death?” Revere asked.
    I said, “We're waiting on the autopsy. Most likely near midnight.”
    He said, “Where do I sit?” I pointed to a desk we used as a dumping ground for catalogs, broken equipment, and half a dozen phones whose origins no one could explain. His face looked like he'd sucked a lemon.
    â€œWho's handling where she worked?” I asked.
    â€œI've got an appointment tomorrow morning,” Finnegan said.
    â€œMake it early afternoon. I'll ride with you,” I said.
    He arched a brow. “I'd love the company.” Sure he would.
    Revere said, “You're working the case?”
    â€œProblem?” I said. Maybe he wouldn't need a desk.
    â€œI've never known a police chief to work a murder.”
    â€œSmall-town economics.”
    He set the unbent paperclip on Finnegan's desk. “Perhaps you'd point me towards the bathroom? I've been on the road a long time.”
    I pointed. He walked. Finnegan swept the paperclip into his trash. Wright approached, a giant soda in hand. “Get anything from the golf-course security camera?” I asked.
    â€œNada. It hadn't been turned on in months.” Wright set his drink down and loosened his tie.
    Revere returned from the toilet. He and Wright met. Updates were given.
    â€œShe was shot on the golf course, but that might not have been her destination,” I said. Time to lead them to the cabin. “She doesn't live far from the course. She might've been headed home.”
    â€œFrom where?” Wright asked.
    â€œYou tell me. Are there places in Idyll where young people go at night?”
    â€œIf they want fun?” he asked. “Out of town.”
    â€œAnd if they're making their own?” Come on, guys. Say the