The Death Dealer by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online Page A

clinically clean desks in the room.
    Joe took a seat. He’d been in plenty of morgues, but he never became as accustomed to working with the dead as Frank, who got right to the point.
    “If you just wanted to shoot the breeze, you’d have called to meet for a beer somewhere. So what’s up? I’m guessing it’s the Thorne Bigelow murder.”
    “Good deduction,” Joe said.
    “Well, speaking as Dr. Watson here, I’d have to say I learned something from Holmes,” Frank said shrewdly. “You’ve worked for Eileen Brideswell before. She knew Thorne, so I assume she intends to use her resources to help the police find the murderer. After all, she has a lot at stake.”
    Joe decided not to correct him and explain that he wasn’t working for Eileen but had been pretty much forced to take the case by Genevieve. He wasn’t surprised that Frank had made the assumption that his appearance had to do with the case, but he was surprised that Frank seemed to think that Eileen had a lot at stake.
    He nodded, watching Frank. “Yes, I’m here about Bigelow.”
    “His son picked up the body the other day. Personally. What with the Bigelow money, he certainly didn’t have to do it, but the kid came in here crying like a baby. Well, hell, he’s not a kid, really. He’s got to be about thirty.”
    “I guess you never get so old that you don’t feel the loss of a parent.”
    “No.” Frank shrugged. “I talked to him. He’s on the warpath himself, wants to know who killed his father, and why.”
    Joe stared at Frank, and Frank grinned and shrugged.
    “Okay, you and I both know that the Bigelow money and power drew lots of enemies. But, hey, I’m not a cop. I turn over my findings, and the cops take it from there.”
    “And what did you find?”
    “That the man’s love for a good glass of wine did him in.”
    “So his wine was definitely poisoned?”
    “Definitely. He hadn’t eaten in hours. From the timing, I got the impression he was probably about to go out for dinner. That it was the aperitif before the meal.”
    “What was it?”
    “Rosencraft 1858. A very rare burgundy,” Frank said.
    Joe almost smiled. “I meant the poison.”
    “Arsenic.”
    “I thought arsenic poisoners usually dosed their victims more slowly?”
    “Arsenic poisoning was popular in the past. Centuries ago. People got sick, and eventually they died. But a large dose is just as effective—and quicker.”
    “Was there anything else? Any sign of a struggle? Bruises, gashes, defensive wounds?”
    “Not a thing,” Frank told him.
    Joe was silent. Frank shrugged. “‘Quoth the raven—die.’”
    “There’s nothing about poisoning in ‘The Raven,’ is there?”
    “No, but there is in both ‘The Black Cat’ and ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’”
    “I do the autopsy, Joe. That’s it. After that, I let the cops do their work.”
    “Who caught the case?” Joe asked.
    “Raif Green and Thomas Dooley. They’re both good guys. Neither one is green. They’ve been working murders together for almost ten years.”
    “Yeah, I know them both,” Joe said. He knew them well, and he liked them both. That was a relief. Neither was the type of hothead to get antsy because a P. I. was on the case. They were both workhorses who had come up through the ranks, seen everything, grown weary and kept at it anyway. Good cops, they were constrained by the department’s budget and tended to be pleased when someone like him could throw some private citizen’s funds at a case.
    “There’s a break for you,” Frank said.
    “Yeah, thanks, I’ll give Raif a call. I know him best,” Joe said as he rose. “We’ll have to grab a beer soon, Frank. I don’t want to keep you from your work now, though.”
    “Don’t worry. Old Hank isn’t going to get any deader,” Frank told him.
    Joe glanced over at the body on the Gurney. If it weren’t for the gash, “Old Hank” could have been sleeping.
    “A fall?” he asked skeptically.
    “Oh, yeah. You