Swan Dive by Jeremiah Healy Read Free Book Online

windshield. ”Yes.”
    ”From Samaritan Hospital ?”
    ”Yes.”
    ”Do you know her name?”
    Hanna didn’t reply for a minute. I didn’t prod her. She said, ”Sheilah Kelley.”
    ”Can you describe her?”
    ”Tall, red hair, very red.” Hanna looked out the side window. ”Good figure, like me before Vickie.”
    ”Do you know when she works there?”
    ”From four o’clock to midnight, I think.”
    I left it there, and we rode in silence the rest of the way.

    The Seaway is one hell of a road for views. Driving north, first you see Swampscott harbor, then just open ocean. Finally, as the shoreline curves eastward, the jagged horizon of the Boston skyline rises ten miles south and west.
    Number 13 was on the waterside of the street. The BMW 633i was black inside and out. It stood sleek and taut in the driveway closest to the garage doors. Behind it sat a little brown Toyota Tercel, nestled close but still blocking the sidewalk a bit. The Tercel had a Samaritan Hospital parking decal on its rear window.
    I pulled fifty yards past the driveway, executed a three-point turn, and looked at my watch. Almost 3:15. I studied the house while I waited.
    It was a tri-level contemporary, with a faked cupola and widow’s walk at the third floor. The exterior sported cedar shake shingles and a deck on my side of the house that seemed to sweep around behind it and toward the ocean. I guessed it at four bedrooms, three baths, and way, way over the $ 150,000 appraisal. For my purposes, I especially liked the deck; they usually had sliding glass doors at the back leading into the living room.
    At 3:25, a tall redheaded woman blew through the front doorway and hurried toward the Tercel. She wore nurses’ whites and was fastening the two top buttons as she fumbled for her car keys. She jumped in, backed out, and sped off. I waited fifteen more minutes, then strolled over to the house.
    The view from the deck ran the gamut from harbor to skyline. I didn’t see the speed racer, but it probably was berthed at one of the clubs where Marsh had a membership. The deck boasted a gigantic gas grill, chichi lounge chairs, and art deco drink stands. Real class. The glass doors were there, too, just a little ajar. Even better.
    I slipped into the living room, cool and dark with a cathedral ceiling. A deer’s head was mounted high over the fireplace, crossed hunting rifles between it and the mantel. There were framed photographs of Marsh in various terrains, rifle butt resting pretentiously on a cocked hip and a dead animal’s antlers being propped up unnaturally by various guides. The size of the creatures in the photos surprised me. I thought Roy was more the kind of guy who’d spend his summers clubbing baby seals.
    A five-foot projection television screen such as you’d see in a proud sports bar dominated one corner of the room. Around it, I could see a lot of high-tech consoles on black-lacquered shelving. Both audio and video equipment, including a hand-held camera in an unlatched carrying case, a tripod, and at least three video-recorders. I didn’t bother to look for the cassettes memorializing his favorite hunts.
    When I got to the base of the staircase, I could hear stereo noise drifting down from the second floor, mixed with the sound of water running and drumming intermittently. My boy was taking a shower.
    I climbed the steps carefully, not wanting vibration to give away what the hi-fi cooperatively covered. The water sound got louder as I entered the master bedroom suite. The sheets on the king-size bed were rumpled and dirty, a fresh, oval stain on them near the center of the mattress. The accordion louvers on the closets were arced outward, clothes tossed everywhere. The door to the master bath was open, probably to allow the music coming from the large speakers on customized stands in two corners of the bedroom to be heard. There was a forty-five-inch television screen in a third comer, with two more VCRs on shelves