In Plain Sight by Barbara Block Read Free Book Online

I’d read about Marsha’s death. But it looked as if I should have. The ME might have brought in a different verdict if the cops had known about my meeting with Marsha. I took a deep breath and phoned the Public Safety Building. I got put on hold. Then I waited. Then I got disconnected. It was nice to know their phone system was as loused up as everything else in that place.
    â€œAren’t you going to try again?” Tim asked as I hung up the receiver. I reached for my keys.
    â€œNo. I’m going to run down there.” What the hell. The way things were going it looked as if it would be quicker to drive over than to try and get reconnected.
    â€œHey, pick me up a Big Mac on your way back,” Tim yelled when I was halfway to the door.
    I told him I would and left. I spent ten minutes driving downtown and another five looking for a legal parking spot, but I couldn’t find one. You’d think in a city this size there’d be parking spots all over the place, but there never are. What we’ve got instead are lots of indoor garages with lousy security systems, a fact I can personally attest to since I was mugged in one a couple of years ago. Finally I gave up circling the block, parked in front of a hydrant, and got out. What was another ticket? I never paid them anyway.
    I crossed the street and headed toward the PSB. The building’s style was institutional bland. The new jail going up next to it would probably be the same. Why shouldn’t it be? I thought as I pulled the heavy glass door open and went inside. Most of the new buildings built in this town, with a few exceptions, range from the pedestrian to the downright ugly.
    Except for the officer on duty sitting in back of the inquiry desk and a woman trying to make a phone call the lobby was empty. Come to think of it, I’ve rarely seen it full. It took about five minutes, but I finally got the desk officer to call upstairs and have the detective in charge of the Marsha Pennington case come down and talk to me. If I had known who it was, I would have saved myself the aggravation and gone and gotten myself a cup of coffee.
    â€œChrist,” Connelly snorted when he saw me. “I might have known. “
    Great. Just the man I didn’t want to talk to. I’d run into Connelly on the last case I’d worked on and we hadn’t exactly gotten along. He thought I was arrogant and impetuous while I thought he was fat, lazy, and stupid. To be fair we both had a point—only I had more of one than he did. As I stood there watching him glowering at me I thought of the Pillsbury Dough Boy—the Pillsbury Dough Boy with a bad hair cut and a stained, brown polyester suit.
    I threw out my arms in a parody of a greeting. “What? No hello? No ‘how are you doing?’ “
    Connelly didn’t smile. His lips didn’t even twitch. That was another thing I admired about the man: his sense of humor. Instead he jerked his head toward the guy sitting behind the desk. “Crew said you had some information for me.” I could tell he was really anxious to hear what I had to say.
    â€œI do. But first tell me, did Marsha Pennington leave a note?” The Herald had said she hadn’t, but I wanted to make sure.
    â€œYou read the local paper?” Connelly asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen you got your answer.” He flicked a piece of food off of his front tooth with his thumbnail. “Now say what you came to say because I’ve got a desk load of work waiting for me upstairs.”
    While he acted bored I told him about my conversation with Marsha on Friday.
    â€œSo?” Connelly said when I was done. “What’s your point?”
    â€œMy point, if you’d been listening, is that I don’t think Marsha Pennington committed suicide.”
    He began scraping the dirt under his right thumbnail out with his left one. “The ME says she did. You telling me you know more than