No Place Like Hell by K. S. Ferguson Read Free Book Online

arrest. Prove a connection between Sleeth and whoever wielded the knife—assuming there is a connection."
    I clamped my jaw shut. At the next left turn, I focused on where we were going. "You're running a search pattern."
    Dave slowed as we cruised by a half-empty parking lot. His eyes raked the vehicles. "Newell drives a blue '65 Chevy Impala. If he can't remember where he left it, then it's probably still here somewhere."
    "What's with you and Newell?" I folded my arms over my chest. "Is this because he asked me to lunch?"
    Dave and I had known one another since first grade. We were best friends and partners, nothing more. He was the kind of guy I ought to date: strong, dependable, almost sensitive. But there was no spark.
    No, I had the misfortune to be attracted to altogether the wrong men. In high school, it had been Larry Renfrew. He was doing ten to twenty in San Quentin for armed robbery. Then there'd been Charlie Wilson. We'd dated for a month when he stole my checkbook, cleaned out my bank account, and skipped town.
    "I just think we need to find out what happened. Too many things don't add up," Dave said.
    I threw my hands in the air. "Don't go all 'big brother' on me. It's not like he and I are dating."
    "He's the mayor's son. That makes him a VIP." Dave took the next corner a little too fast. "I don't want you around someone who could get you hurt."
    "Listen to you! You'd think I was some helpless female. I wear a gun, remember? I can take care of myself."
    "That's not what I meant," Dave protested. "What did you put in your report? You said, 'Newell ran into the street.' You're always careful with your reports, Nicky. You wouldn't write ran unless that's what he did."
    I chewed my lip. He was right again, damn it. Tad didn't just step off the curb without looking. He jumped in front of the Camaro. Had he been trying to kill himself? Was he messed up from serving in 'Nam?
    I'd only spoken to him for a few minutes, but Tad seemed like a nice guy, a man of substance. According to the papers, he'd been working to help other veterans. There were rumors he'd run for city council come the next election. I didn't want to believe he had a death wish.
    "VIPs attract the wrong kind of people, especially politician VIPs," Dave said. "Look what happened to Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King. I don't want you caught in a crossfire."
    Last night's tableau replayed in my head, and just like that, I had the answer. He wasn't trying to kill himself—he was running away.
    "Those two guys," I said, my voice climbing. "They were chasing him."
    "What guys?" Dave asked, taking his eyes from the street long enough to shoot me a perplexed look.
    "Two toughs ran to the curb just after he went down. I didn't see where they went. Did you get their names?"
    "They must have split. I didn't interview them."
    "Take us back to Santa Domingo. I want to see where they came from."
    Dave abandoned the search and drove back to the accident site. He pulled to the curb. I got out and strolled the sidewalk to the intersection.
    Smeared blood still marked the pavement. I turned my back on it, took a deep breath, and started the previous day's scenario playing in my head.
    The Camaro roared. Tad jumped in front of it. I ran up the street towards him. The two men had come from…
    The Carlisle Hotel. It was a seedy brick affair on the corner, rising six stories, home to strapped pensioners, destitute widows, and newly released convicts.
    I walked back to the car, my gut churning. If that's where Newell came from, what was he doing there? Why were the men chasing him? My mind shied away from the possible answers, all of them involving criminal activities.
    "Well?" Dave asked.
    "The hotel."
    Dave craned his neck to see its façade through the windshield. Then he looked at me. "Maybe he has friends living there. You can ask him when you have lunch. He should be able to remember that much."
    Good ol' Dave, always thinking the best of people.
    "If they were