Stealing the Elf-King's Roses: The Author's Cut by Diane Duane Read Free Book Online

“Fatherhood is turning you into a real pain,” she said. “Let me go change into my flats, and we’ll go sniff us a murder.”

    *

    The black-and-whites were dotted around the intersection of Eighteenth and Melrose when they got there, the yellow tapes in place stretched between palm tree and parking meter and mailbox and anti-ram stanchion, screaming POLICE! DO NOT CROSS! in various major languages of Earth and the Worlds. The street itself was absolutely typical of this part of Ellay—blacktop four cars wide, patched halfheartedly a couple of years ago and shimmering in Mondrian gray/black/gray down the length of it toward Santa Monica Boulevard; short green curbside lawn already going brown, in places, in this too-arid spring; wide white sidewalks, half the slabs cracked; bungalow houses in white stucco with red or brown tile roofs, ornamental palms and cacti bristling here and there, interspersed with poinsettia trailing splashes of dilapidated red; doorways gated and locked against the thugs from the next neighborhood over. Over everything the hot blue sky arched, the white sun in it standing lunchtime-high, and the erstwhile inhabitants of the black-and-whites stood around in the meager shadow of the royal palms nearest the corner and tried to look as if they were doing something. Near them, half across a driveway, was a white tarp, and under that, a blue one.
    Lee and Gelert had left their company hov parked on Wilshire. They walked around the corner and saw it all laid out for them, and as they did, one of the shapes standing in shadow looked up and saw them: the only one of the people standing there likely to get much good of the shadow, being nearly as skinny as a palm tree himself. Jim Blessington came stalking along toward them in the sun, head down, shoulders bent as if the light had weight, the blue LAPD coverall glancing the sunlight back from rank patches and the rolled-back hood. Only as he got close did he look up. “Mz. Enfield,” he said.
    “Mr. Blessington,” Lee said. “How’s the family?”
    “Doing well, thank you. Marta turned three last week.”
    “I can’t believe it,” Lee said. “It seems like about half an hour ago that we flew Michelle over to Cedars. The boys all right?”
    “As good as they can be with the Birthday Girl ruling the roost.” Blessington grinned a little, then nodded at Gelert: Gel tilted his head, flipped his ears forward. It was all the greeting they ever exchanged. Jim worked professionally enough with  madrín  but found it hard to socialize with them, and only his tremendous skill as a detective, and his “kill rate,” had kept this from becoming a disciplinary issue.
    “So what have we got, Jim?” Lee said, as they walked toward the tarp.
    “We’re hoping you’ll tell us. Body’s at LACC right now. As far as we can tell, the guy came around the corner from Melrose, walked down toward his car. Someone waited for him…” Jim made a “blooey” gesture with his hands. “Left the scene. On foot, we think…but your reading, we hope, will confirm.”
    “We’ll see.”
    Gelert paused. “Blessington,” he said, “you know that this is some damn political thing from Upstairs. We’re not needed here.”
    “Damn well I know it,” Jim muttered. “Nice you know it, too. ”
    “Wanted to make sure you knew we knew it.”
    “Always said you were a gentleman,” Jim said, “as houn’ dogs go.”
    Lee took no official notice of any of this. “Jim,” she said, “any sign of the murder weapon as yet? It would do us the most good.”
    “We’re conducting a house-to-house. Don’t think we’re going to find it here, though. I’m betting it’s fifty miles away in a dry wash somewhere, or a lot farther off than that. Meanwhile, we’ve already been all over this area for physical forensics purposes: you don’t have to worry about fouling anything.”
    The three of them paused by the spread-out tarp. The other uniforms, two men and a woman,