Red by Kate Kinsey Read Free Book Online Page B

stops—were merely lost, unbelieving, always asking: How did this happen to us?
    “Yeah, her folks thought she was their little shining star,” Griggs said, flicking at some dust on his jacket. “But she was a dirty girl who liked to party. Probably with some married guy since they were in a no-tell motel and the guy paid with cash. No credit card bill for the little woman to find.”
    “You speaking from experience?” Hanson’s voice was carefully flat. He didn’t like Griggs’s callous glee at the dead girl’s sex habits, but that was Griggs.
    He, on the other hand, couldn’t stop seeing those dull blank eyes staring at the ceiling. He got into the driver’s seat and put the key into the ignition.
    “Nah.” Griggs grinned, sliding in beside him. “I only fuck the ones with their own apartment.”
    “Is that a policy since the first divorce or the second?”
    “The second. I’m a slow learner. You think the boyfriend is the doer?”
    Hanson sighed. If you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras, so they said. But there was something wrong with these hoofbeats.
    “It doesn’t feel right,” he said. “Have you got the rope report over there?”
    “It won’t make any more sense the twelfth time than it did the first.” But Griggs pulled it out and read it aloud anyway. “ ‘Traces of spermicidal lubricant consistent with several popular commercial condoms. Human sweat from two sources: one male, one female.’ ”
    “So it was used at some point, even though it and everything else was put away. As if playtime was over and done.”
    “Maybe she and lover-boy had done the deed, all lovey-dovey, and then she said something that set him off,” Griggs suggested. “I mean, she was dressed when she was killed, too. Looks like she was on her way out the door.”
    The door had a loose mortise plate and some splintering on the jamb. But it was impossible to tell if the damage had happened the day of the crime or weeks before.
    And fingerprints? A motel room wasn’t even worth printing.
    The techies had found hairs everywhere, all different colors and textures. The long blond ones were probably Robyn’s, but Hanson wouldn’t be surprised to find the sheets hadn’t been changed since the last time the room was rented. The hairs could even be transfer from the spread or, hell, the carpet.
    “What’s he do about his clothes?” Griggs looked at Hanson. “Strip naked before he kills? Bring a change of clothes and take the old ones with him?”
    “Damned if I know,” Hanson said. Lenny had taken photos of what looked like bloody boot prints all over the carpet. “Big damned shoes, though. Thirteen’s, maybe.”
    When they arrived back at the station, they headed for the morgue.
    “Have you got the report on Macy finished?” Hanson asked.
    Miles didn’t answer. He was too engrossed in digging around the chest cavity of the nameless dead man on his table with a pair of long tweezers.
    “Can you at least tell me if it was the same weapon? Baseball bat?” Hanson did not approach the table. This wasn’t his body, and he didn’t want to see it.
    “Didn’t you read the final report on Banks?” Miles asked, annoyed enough to finally look up. “Whatever it is, it’s not a baseball bat. The impact impressions are similar, but much smaller. Definitely has a rounded end, though.”
    “But you think it’s the same weapon?”
    “Yep. It’s probably made of wood, though I didn’t find any traces in the wounds.” Miles lifted a lead slug from the dead man’s chest and dropped it into a bowl.
    “Then what makes you think it’s wood?” Hanson asked.
    “Because I found flakes of polyurethane. Like the stuff used to finish furniture.”
    “So, we got polyurethane.” Griggs shrugged. “On both bodies?”
    Miles nodded and went back to probing the open chest.
    “Hit in the throat, too?”
    “Yep.”
    “So you’re almost done?” Hanson asked. “With the final report, I mean?”
    Miles looked