Thin Air by George Simpson, Neal Burger Read Free Book Online Page A

receiver to its cradle and sat there, stunned. It's too pat, he thought. Too goddamned neat. He dialed Fletcher's apartment at the Watergate.  
    It was picked up after the third ring. "Medacre," rumbled a disembodied voice.
    Hammond used his most authoritative tone: "This is Commander Hammond of the Naval Investigative Service." He waited in vain for an acknowledgment. "I'm calling about Harold Fletcher. Who am I speaking to?"
    The man grunted. "Detective Lieutenant Medacre, Metropolitan PD. What can I do for you?"
    Hammond shot back, "Would you confirm a report we just got that Harold Fletcher is deceased?"
    "Very deceased. Was he one of yours?"
    "No, but we had an interest in him. Lieutenant, I would appreciate it if you would leave everything as is until I've had a chance to look it over. Tell Watergate Security to expect me. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
    If Medacre was impressed, his voice didn't show it. "Hammond, right? I'll leave your name, but make it snappy."
    Hammond tried to reach Gault by phone, but the admiral was already on his way to the lunch meeting. He grabbed Lee Miller in the hallway and gave him a message for Gault: "Tell him a friend has died and I've been called away."
    "He's not gonna believe it," Miller smirked.
    On his way out the door, Hammond shot back, "Miller, you better make him believe it."
     
    Hammond hit traffic once he crossed the Potomac and felt impatience rising again, his instinctive reaction to pressure situations. He parked his car with a slam of brakes and a squeal of tires, then hurried across the little shopping mall.
    The security desk was expecting him. He was whisked up to a cop on the eleventh floor. Medacre met him in a small anteroom just inside the door at the end of the hall. He was big, with a plain, open face, but his eyes had the weary look that comes from seeing too much death in all its forms. His handshake was firm and strong, blunt fingers wrapping around Hammond's outstretched hand. "He's in the living room, Commander. We'll hold off until you're finished. "       
    "I shouldn't be too long. Is the coroner here?"
    Medacre nodded. "Yeah, inside with the deceased."
    There were six other men in the living room. Two of them were unfolding a body bag; another was on his knees drawing a chalk circle around an ashtray that lay on the carpet, while a fat little man sat in an armchair busily working a toothpick in and out of his mouth. He was watching a photographer taking pictures of the corpse.
    Fletcher's body was knee-down on the carpet in front of the couch. The torso was slumped over a low, glass-topped coffee table. His head, framed by an outstretched left arm, rested across a pile of scattered playing cards. His face was turned sideways, features contorted, a blue tinge to the slack skin. One bulging eye stared dully into unseeing space.
    Hammond winced. He'd seen his share of bodies, but that terrible lack of dignity always bothered him.
    Idly he wondered if Jan had bought the blue silk robe that Fletcher was wearing. His eyes picked up the dry, rust-colored line that ran from the one nostril that he could see, staining a card resting under the dead man's nose.
    Hammond stepped carefully around the overturned ashtray. It was in direct line with Fletcher's out-thrust arm. "Why the blood?" he asked.
    Medacre shrugged. "Hey, Brody! Get over here!"  
    Hammond watched the fat man ease himself out of the armchair and waddle over. "You ready for me?"
    "Not yet Commander Hammond, meet Doctor Brody."
    Brody waved a chubby hand. "What can I do for you?"
    "The commander would like to know about the bleeding."
    Bored, piglike little eyes glanced down at the body, then up at Hammond. "With a heart attack, you never know. Some are quiet, others messy. This one convulsed, slid off the couch, had a strong spasm, jackknifed forward, and bingo! Hit the table with his nose. If it means anything to you, it must have been pretty quick."
    "You're sure it was a heart attack?"