Primed for Murder by Jack Ewing Read Free Book Online Page A

measuring time from a mythical Day Zero and marking significant events thereafter. Time was important for annual planting and harvesting, for the commemoration of special occasions, like victory in battle or the accession of a new leader, for recording astronomical observations, such as phases of planets, solar and lunar eclipses—”
    Toby interrupted. “What would one of those manuscripts be worth?”
    Mr. Puterbaugh stared at him as if he’d said something filthy. “Impossible to calculate. Many thousands of dollars, I would surmise. Perhaps many millions.”
    “What if you had millions and wanted to buy one?”
    “The few that remain are not for sale. Not for any price.” Puterbaugh’s jaw muscles stood out under the brown skin. His fists lumped the pockets of his robe.
    Dixon scanned the room once more. “I think we’re done here. Thanks for your cooperation, folks.” He shut his notebook and dropped it in a side pocket of his wrinkled coat. By the sharp-cornered creases in the fabric, it had often lain in that spot. The detectives shook hands with Mr. Puterbaugh, nodded at Mrs. Puterbaugh. Dixon motioned for French and Toby to follow him. The detectives left the room, trailed by the wife.
    Mr. Puterbaugh clamped onto Toby’s arm, holding him back with a powerful grasp. “I should be careful what I reported from now on, if I were you,” he whispered.
    Toby shook loose. “You’re not me.” He set his half-finished ice tea on the desk, strode from the room, and left the house by the front door an unsmiling Mrs. Puterbaugh held open for him.

Chapter 5
    Dixon and French waited for Toby halfway down the walk leading from the Puterbaugh house. The three men ambled towards the detectives’ car. “That was a big nothing.” French scratched an armpit, exposing a holstered gun.
    Toby considered reporting Mr. Puterbaugh’s implied threat but vetoed the idea: Just one man’s word against another’s. The words themselves were harmless enough—it was how they’d been said. There was a cold spot on his arm where strong fingers had pinched. “It’s plain as the nose on your face. Everything’s been tidied up.”
    “You still singing that same tired song?”
    “There’s no pile of books, like you told us,” Dixon said reasonably. “No slashed furniture. No bloody rug or spatters. Everything’s normal.”
    “Most of all, no body, like you claimed.” French’s voice had a nasty tone.
    “They put the room back in order,” Toby said. “But they were careless. Did you look at the books? Some were shelved upside down. Pictures on the walls didn’t match spots on the wallpaper where other things once hung, and—”
    French stopped and Toby almost ran into him. “Know what I think?”
    “Who cares what you think? I know what I saw.” Toby’s face, inches from the detective’s, felt hot. French’s breath stank as though he’d had pizza heaped with pepperoni and garlic for lunch. The odor clashed with his pungent shaving lotion.
    French went on as though Toby hadn’t spoken. “You’re in trouble. It’s illegal to file a false crime report.” He huffed through his nose like an accelerating locomotive.
    “To knowingly file a false report.” Dixon stepped between them. “Mr. Rew is only guilty of having a few too many, of impaired judgment.”
    Toby rounded on the older detective. “You think I dreamed it all up, too?” Dixon shrugged. “I didn’t have a drink until later.”
    “Then you made up for lost time,” French cracked.
    Toby ignored him. “I was sober when I witnessed the crime and found the body.” The beer buzz had worn off and now he just felt tired. “Look, I’m a law-abiding citizen. I’m trying to do the right thing.”
    French waved it away. “You’re so full of crap, it’s coming out your mouth.”
    “Try to see it from our point of view, Mr. Rew. We deal in evidence. Facts.” Dixon slung an arm in friendly fashion around Toby’s shoulders. “Here are the