Shallow Graves by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online Page A

seen him selling some pot to a local boy. They—”
    “No,” Pellam spat out. “Impossible.”
    “They described the car pretty good, sir.”
    “Who was it? Who reported it?”
    “An anonymous call. There was a foil package with a goodly bit of grass in it. And some crack. It was in the car. The glove compartment. It wasn’t all burnt up.”
    Pellam lifted his hands to his face. He wondered if he was going to cry. He’d cried twice in the past ten years. Once was just after the funeral of a friend. The second time was when his ex had left. He’d been drunk on both occasions. He was sober now and he didn’t think he was going to cry.
    “If it’s any consolation,” the deputy said, “the coroner said it was fast.” He looked at the doctor for confirmation that a fast death was better than a slow one.
    The doctor handed him a paper cup. Inside were two pills, tiny white pills.
    “They’ll help you sleep.”
    Pellam shook his head but he didn’t hand them back. He held the cup in both hands and stared at the two dots of pills, studying them carefully, noting the way the light, muted by the side of the paper cup, fell on them, how they were perfectly symmetrical, how they rested against each other—a kind of infinity symbol in three dimensions.
    What Pellam couldn’t tell them was: one of the things he was feeling was fury. He’d been after Marty for months to give up the pot. Pellam had done his share of controlled substances in his day, but had been shocked to find that Marty had smuggled a few nickel bags into Mexico. When Pellam had found them, he’d pulled the boy from bed, pinning him to the cold metallic sides of the camper just beforedawn, demanding to know where the rest of the stash was. He owned up and handed it over to Pellam, who threw it out. Marty promised he’d abstain while they were driving together.
    Would the boy have gone back on his word?
    And crack? He’d never even mentioned that.
    “Uhm, what—?” Pellam started to ask the deputy but his thoughts jammed. The men looked at him patiently. He remembered. “What should I do?”
    The doctor said, “You don’t have to do anything at all but get some rest. I still don’t want you out of bed till tomorrow.”
    “But—”
    The young deputy held teardrop-shaped sunglasses with haze-cutting yellow lenses—right out of a sixties biker movie. The sincere, well-scrubbed man hooked a thumb into a leather mesh belt and said, “The coroner’s doing his report right now; we’ve already called the young man’s family. And your film studio.”
    His family. . . .
    Hello, Mrs. Jacobs. You don’t know me, but I worked with your son. . . . The two of us, we got our asses thrown out of a whorehouse in Nogales about three weeks ago. . . .
    The deputy continued, “We’re making arrangements to ship the body back to Los Angeles. We figured you’d want to be traveling with him, sir, so we’ve booked you on the same flight. The local funeral home’s agreed to transport the body to Albany Airport. That’ll be American Eagle flight 6733, day after tomorrow.”
    “If he’s well enough to travel,” the doctor said.
    Your son, Mr. Jacobs, was smoking a nugget of crack and got blown up. . . .
    “Of course,” the deputy said. “Sure.” The man leaned forward and Pellam saw a roll of dense fat encroach over the black belt of his Sam Browne harness, Vaseline-shined patent leather. The deputy said, “I don’t like, you know, drugs much, sir. Especially if he was into selling them to some of our young people. But I’m truly sorry about your friend. What happened wasn’t fair. All outa proportion, you know what I mean?”
    The man’s battleship-gray eyes were tight with sorrow and Pellam thanked him. He looked again at the pills. The cup wasn’t waxed and he found that his sweat had left fingerprints on the sides.
    The doctor said, “Take those now. You need rest.”
    Pellam couldn’t speak. He nodded.
    “We’ll leave you