Martin Misunderstood by Karin Slaughter Read Free Book Online Page A

down at his hands, which were
clasped together on the table. Bruce had left on
the handcuffs, and An had to admit he was right
about the Krispy Kreme machine. 'Give me your
hands,' she said, taking out her keys. She tried
not to touch him as she took off the cuffs, but
there was no way to get around it. His skin was
clammy enough to make her flesh crawl.
    'Thank you,' he said, rubbing his wrists to get
the blood back into them. 'Albada – is that
German?'
    'Dutch.'
    He affected a very bad accent. ' Pardonnemoi .'
    'That's French.'
    ' Oui .'
    'French again.'
    He blinked several times.
    An sighed. 'Do you want to tell me where you
were last night?'
    'I told you that I took my mother to get her
trowel.'
    'Are you aware that your mother has a
restraining order filed against her by the Peony
Club of Lawrenceville?'
    His throat moved as he swallowed. 'It was just
a misunderstanding.'
    'And what about the Ladies' Hospital
Auxiliary?'
    His wet lips parted in shock. 'They filed a
complaint, too?'
    'Did your mother not tell you that?'
    He shook his head, obviously agitated.
    'They seem to think she's a violent person.'
    'She's not violent. She's just . . . intimidating.'
    An intimidating mother. That was interesting.
'Has she ever hit you?'
    'She threw her shoe at me once, but I think that
was more because I was listening to the TV with
my headphones on. You know, the wireless
kind?' An nodded. 'They were interfering with
her hearing aid somehow.'
    'So, she threw her shoe at you?'
    'Only to get my attention.' He spoke as if this
was completely logical. 'What does my mother
have to do with any of this?'
    'I'm a detective, Mr Reed. I put together clues.
What I see in front of me is a man who comes
from a violent family. I see someone who drives
a car with blood on it – blood that belongs to a
dead woman.
    'Well, okay, that – I'll admit – does not look
good.'
    'No, it doesn't.'
    'I suppose I fit the profile, don't I?' He started
nodding, agreeing with himself. 'A loner who
lives with his mother. Over-educated, underemployed.'
    Well, he'd lost her on those last two.
    'I hope you don't think I am a disorganized
killer. I am a very tidy man. Ask my colleague,
Unique Jones. She's often commented on my
retentiveness.'
    An would have liked nothing more than to talk
to Unique Jones. The woman had a warrant out
on her for shoplifting. The home address she had
given Southern Toilet Supply was a vacant lot.
'Are you a killer, Mr Reed?'
    'No, of course not!' He seemed offended again.
'I told you what happened to my car this
morning, how I cut my hands. I am the victim
here. Someone is setting me up.'
    'Why would someone set you up?'
    'Exactly!' he retorted, driving his index finger
into the table as if she had made his point for
him.
    'Where were you last night, Mr Reed?'
    He stared at his hands. The red marks from the
cuffs were still visible. She saw a strange-looking
purple ridge down the side of his thumb. She had
noticed it during booking, and he'd mumbled
something about an industrial accident.
    Martin asked, 'Is "Anther" Dutch, too?'
    'It's the part of a flower where pollen is produced.'
She sat back, feeling overwhelmingly
tired. 'My father was a botanist. He was hoping
for a boy.'
    Martin blinked, not understanding.
    Well, it wasn't her best joke, but she didn't
think it was as bad as his reaction implied. Then
again, the man was sitting in a police interrogation
room being questioned about his
involvement in a brutal murder, so perhaps she
was expecting too much.
    One of the reasons Charlie, her dead
husband, had gotten so mad at An was that he
didn't quite get her sense of humor. He would
admonish her for her smart mouth, accuse her
of lording her education over him (as if a
bachelor's degree in art history was anything to
write home about). He would start off low, like
one of those sirens you crank by hand, and the
more things would spin out of control, the
louder he would get, until he was on top of her,
screaming, his fists