The Mask of Atreus by A. J. Hartley Read Free Book Online Page A

them.
    "Why don't we move back upstairs," said the cop. "In case anyone wants to talk to you."
    He seemed uncertain, but they followed his slightly faltering lead and took new seats on the landing in a pair of wing chairs, while the cop vanished to consult with whoever was in charge.
    "I'm sorry about Richard," said Tonya. It was abrupt, almost brusque: a concession of sorts, but one which stuck in her craw.
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    Deborah nodded but didn't know what to say. Tonya was a good maid, almost too good in fact, and took the kind of pride in her work which suggested that the work of the museum itself was a colossal inconvenience. She was tough and forthright and--despite doing a job which surely meant she was used to being given instructions--resented any show of authority over her.
    Any authority from you, at least, Deborah reminded herself. She seemed respectful to the point of docility where Richard was concerned. It was just Deborah she didn't like. Deborah had put that down to the fact that she was Tonya's boss while also being young and white and female, but she always felt that there was something else, something personal, a resentment she couldn't quite put her finger on. Now Richard was dead, and Tonya was creeping around his bedroom in the middle of the night . . . Don't think about it. Leave the detection to the detectives. Let it go.
    Deborah sighed and continued to watch as the house filled up with people, several armed with cameras and evidence bags and rolls of yellow tape. Occasionally people--men, they were all men--muttered to each other and gave her and Tonya sidelong glances, but for what seemed like a long time no one spoke to either of them, so that she began to feel like the audience of a strangely intimate and surreal performance. For a half hour, people came and went, talking and scribbling notes, lit by the occasional brilliant flashes of cameras from inside, and still no one spoke to her. A female police officer arrived after another twenty-five minutes, a heavyset, kindly woman who offered her water and tried to occupy Deborah's eyes as the body--Richard's body--was wheeled out of the bedroom on a covered gurney. A man she took to be the pathologist was talking to the detective who seemed to be in charge. He gestured with his hands, indicating something about fourteen inches long, then again with his finger and thumb showing a space about the width of the incisions. The weapon.
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    "Miss Miller?" said the detective, as the medical examiner bustled away. "We're ready for you now."
    He nodded to Tonya. "If you wouldn't mind waiting here for a few minutes," he said, "we'll be out to ask you some questions shortly."
    He was tall, about her height, square-shouldered and athletic, dark-haired and tanned. Most women would find him handsome, she thought vaguely, not bothering to wonder why she didn't.
    "I'm Detective Chris Cerniga," he said. "Do you think you could step back in here?"
    He said it delicately, as if the trauma of returning to the bedroom might be too much for her, though his earnest look faltered when she rose to her full height and strode in. He straightened up, throwing his shoulders back a little more than was strictly necessary, and followed her in past the black uniformed cop. There was another detective inside, a balding man in a stained synthetic suit. He was studying the bookcase as they came in and didn't turn round.
    "Dave," said Cerniga. He turned to acknowledge the witness, and his gaze lingered on her. She was unexpected, it seemed, though why--beyond the obvious--was uncertain.
    "This is Miss Miller," said Cerniga. "She found the body."
    "Detective Keene," said the balding man, not offering either a hand or a badge. In fact, now that she had been brought to his attention, he acted as if she didn't deserve it, turning back to the bookcase and considering the titles.
    "I realize this must be very difficult for you," said Cerniga,
    "but I was