The Love-Haight Case Files by Donald J. Bingle Jean Rabe Read Free Book Online Page B

the empty box a few feet away. And well beyond that dimes and nickels were scattered in the blood.
    The detective saw her looking at the lid. “Do you know how much money was in the cash box? How much money Thomas Brock carried in his wallet? We didn’t find any money on the fey.”
    Evelyn shook her head. “A couple hundred maybe in the box. No more than that.” A pause: “And Thomas never carried a lot on him. Not enough to be killed for.”
    “Anything else missing? Obviously missing?”
    So maybe they were thinking robbery as a motive.
    “A glass snow globe that was—” No, it wasn’t missing, and it hadn’t been valuable. It was broken, the glitter at the edge of the blood, one of Thomas’s memories shattered. “That.” Evelyn pointed at the damaged computer, but that was evident. “Pieces of that are missing, the boards from inside it at least. And I don’t see his backup hard drive either, and that was always on his desk because it wouldn’t fit in the skinny desk drawers. For anything else, I’d have to go through stuff,” she’d told them. “Really look. The drawers, the papers, the file cabinets, and it’ll take time. Then I’ll know if something else is missing.” Her own desk appeared untouched; her chair had been returned behind it, seat still adjusted too high.
    “Tomorrow,” the detective had said. “Around noon. I’ll come back and we’ll go through it together. Then when I clear it after that you can have a crew come in for cleaning. I can recommend—”
    Evelyn had numbly nodded. “I know a cleaner. I’ll call them.” She’d tried to ask about the dark fey again, thinking the detective might give her something, but she got another “not at liberty to say.”
    Damn, they really did recite that line.

    Chapter 1.9
    She watched the numbers flip on the clock by her bed, the “1” coming down, the minutes starting to turn over. Police walked through Thomas’s apartment overhead. Three by the sound of it, then two, one tromping down the stairs.
    Evelyn had thought about asking to be present during their search of Thomas’s place. The request would have been approved; she could have spewed legalese if necessary. But she didn’t want to see his things. She’d never been up to his apartment, though he’d invited her for dinner a few times, admitting that he was a bad cook but was willing to give it a try … or was willing to bring in Chinese take-out. On the other hand, Evelyn was by necessity a good cook, and figured he was hinting that she should instead ask him over. That hadn’t happened and they’d always gone out.
    Tears came.
    She’d been holding the grief largely at bay since she’d arrived on the scene, looking at the whole thing with forced detachment, maybe a big part of her not wanting to admit he was gone and thinking this was all some wretched nightmare. “California Dreamin’” started playing in her head. But some of the numbness was wearing off, a little bit with each turnover of the numbers on the clock. Her shoulders shook and she gave in, letting the tears gush and sobbing so loud she feared the police upstairs would hear.
    “What the hell am I going to do?”
    She should call Gretchen, shouldn’t she? She opened her cell phone and punched in the numbers, hating to wake the secretary but not wanting her to hear it on the morning news. Next, she dug through the Rolodex she’d taken from downstairs and called Holder.
    “Mr. Holder—” Evelyn stopped herself from saying “sorry to wake you.” A ghoul, Holder didn’t sleep. “Thomas is dead. Murdered. I thought you should know. Your case?” She rubbed at her chin.
    The voice that came back was gravely. “I’m sorry, Evelyn. Dying is not pleasant. But murder? I can’t imagine how horrible that must have been.”
    There was a pause, and Evelyn thought she ought to say something else, but Holder continued.
    “I hate to sound selfish at a time like this, Ms. Love, but what about my case?