The Front by Patricia Cornwell Read Free Book Online Page B

same pinot, even the same vintage that Stump gave him earlier today when he talked to her at Pittinelli’s. The same pinot, same vintage, of the bottle he accidentally left in his gym bag along with his Prada shoes.
    He takes more photographs, returns to the kitchen, and notices something on a countertop that strikes him as peculiar: The torn cardboard and plastic packaging from a disposable camera—a Solo H 2 O with a flash. Maybe some insurance investigator taking pictures of the damage to the house. But rather unprofessional to use a disposable camera. He opens cupboards, rummages, finds an old stew pot, two foil pans. Careful how he touches them, he places the bottle of wine in the pot, the candle in one foil pan, and the disposable camera package in the other. One last sweep with his light, and he notices a window that isn’t latched, notices disturbed dust on both sides of the glass. More photographs using side lighting, but he doesn’t see any ridge detail, just smudges. A lot of peeling paint has been knocked off the sill and the outside of the sash. Could have been done by someone opening the window from the outside and maybe climbing through it.
    Stump sounds distracted when she answers her phone. When she realizes it’s him, she seems taken aback.
    â€œI thought I made it clear you’re on your own,” she says au thoritatively, as if she might arrest him.
    â€œThe 2002 Wolf Hill pinot,” he says.
    â€œYou’re calling me at this hour to tell me what you think of the wine?”
    â€œYou said you just got it in. Has anybody bought it? And do any other stores carry it around here?”
    â€œWhy?”
    Her tone is different, as if she’s not alone. An alarm is going off inside him. Be careful what you say.
    â€œPrice shopping.” He thinks fast. “Uncorked it when I got home. Amazing. Thought I’d get a case of it.”
    â€œYou’re really nervy, you know that?”
    â€œSo I was kicking back, started thinking. Maybe you should try it with me,” he says. “At my place. I cook a mean veal chop.”
    â€œI don’t believe in eating baby calves,” she says. “And I’ve got no interest in having dinner with you.”

FOUR
    Nana’s Buick shakes and coughs as the engine turns off, and the driver’s door screeches open like a prehistoric bird.
    Win pockets the key, wonders why Farouk the landlord is sitting on the back steps, lighting a cigarette. Since when does he smoke, and he’s breaking his own rule. No smoking, no lighting matches or grills, not so much as a spark is allowed on the grounds of his nineteenth-century brick apartment building, a former school, impeccably maintained and rented to privileged people. Or in Win’s case, to someone who earns his keep. It’s past midnight.
    â€œEither you just started a nasty new habit or something’s up,” says Win.
    â€œAn ugly shorty was looking for you,” Farouk says, a dish towel under him, probably so he doesn’t get dirt on his ill-fitting white suit.
    â€œShe calls herself my shorty?” Win says. “Or is that what you’re calling her?”
    â€œShe say it, not me. I don’t know what it is.”
    â€œGang slang for girlfriend,” Win says.
    â€œSee! I knew she was a gangster! I knew it! That’s why I’m this upset! I don’t want peoples like that, try very hard to keep things the right way.” In his heavy accent. “These peoples you see in your job, they come here, I have to ask you to move out! My tenants will complain and I will lose my leases!”
    â€œEasy going, Farouk . . .”
    â€œNo! I let you here for this unbelievable good price to protect me from bad peoples, and then they come here, these very ones you’re supposed to keep away!” He jabs his finger at Win. “Good thing no one but me sees her! I’m very upset. Peoples like that show up here, and you