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

facts, as we see them.” He made a fist of his free hand, except for a slender forefinger. “One: no evidence of a crime, much less murder, at the Puterbaugh’s—”
    “How many times do I have to tell you? They cleaned it up!” Toby ducked from under the detective’s arm and faced the two men. “They had a couple hours between when I found the dead man and when we got back here. Plenty of time to get rid of a body and do a little housekeeping.”
    “And whose fault is it they had so much time?” French asked.
    “I explained all that.” Behind Dixon and French, Toby saw slight movement at the open blinds in Puterbaugh’s den window as someone flashed into and out of sight. “Maybe the body is hidden in the cellar. Maybe it’s in the attic.”
    “Maybe it’s all in your mind,” French said. “Give you credit: you got a vivid imagination.”
    “Everything I said is true! I gave lots of details—”
    “They didn’t pan out. Sure, it’s apparent you’ve been in that room before. But we’re missing the main attraction: a corpse. Or evidence there ever was a corpse.”
    “What’s the problem? Take apart the house, you’ll find it. Or spray some stuff that glows where blood’s been. What’s it called?” What was wrong with the cops? Why didn’t these lummoxes want to do their job?
    “Luminol,” French said.
    “Problem is, Mr. Rew, to search the place thoroughly, we’d need a warrant,” Dixon said. “And to get a warrant, we need probable cause.”
    “We haven’t got probable squat. Everything’s kosher.” French’s eyes, the green of a cat’s, glinted with anger. “We haven’t got anything but a colossal waste of time. And you, the guy who’s wasted it.”
    “That’s the second important fact, Mr. Rew.” Dixon made a two-fingered V. “The fact you’ve been drinking. And the two facts sort of cancel each other out.” The fingers were snapped up by Dixon’s sharp-knuckled fist.
    “We should run you in for public intoxication.” French fingered handcuffs looped at his belt. “Making us come out on a wild-goose chase.”
    “But we won’t,” Dixon said. “I’m sure it was all an honest mistake.”
    Toby fumed, biting his tongue. How could these blockheads, investigation specialists, supposedly professional observers, be so blind?
    Dixon patted his shoulder like a father chastising a son. “You sober enough to drive?” Toby nodded, unable to speak. “Hope so. I’d hate to see you arrested for DUI. Go straight home, sleep it off and we’ll forget about this little incident, okay?”
    “And don’t let it happen again.” French shook a finger in his face. “I’ll keep an eye peeled for you, Rew.” He sniffed once more, with feeling, climbed behind the wheel, fired a parting shot: “Get some help for that drinking problem.” Dixon smiled at Toby sympathetically and slid in on the passenger side. The car pulled smoothly away.
    Toby stared after them a moment, then crossed to his truck. He mused briefly about getting out paint and brush again, and having at Mrs. Cratty’s house. But the sun was lower in the sky. It had been a long, trying day. He’d never be able to focus on the job, knowing the Puterbaughs were watching him.
    He unlocked the truck door. The cab was stifling. The seat covers seared his legs through the coveralls and the plastic steering wheel burned his fingers. Toby rolled down both windows to let in air and slumped back to think. At the angle he was sitting, the blue house across the street filled the outside mirrors of the truck. Questions crowded Toby’s head—questions the police couldn’t be bothered to ask.
    Like, who was the dead man? No idea, but he was related to those people in Mr. Puterbaugh’s history books. Ancient Mexico was written all over his face.
    Who’d killed him? Toby had only seen the dark-haired man from the back.
    Why had he been killed? No answer.
    What were killer and victim doing at the Puterbaugh’s? One or both had