Through the Grinder by Cleo Coyle Read Free Book Online Page A

years, Clare.” His voice was eerily cold. Unemotional. Dead. “With men. And, lately, with a woman. She’s shredded our marriage vows into worthless rags. Lied to me more times than I can count.”
    I took a deep breath. “Then the real question is whether you’ve come to the point where you can live without her.”
    With his free hand, Quinn reached for the wine glass again, but only to finger the stem. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine now. They focused on the fine Waterford crystal, its facets reflecting the flickering candlelight.
    I waited for him to continue—because I thought we had all evening, and I had plenty of time to hear more about his marriage, about any attempts he might have made at marriage counseling, and generally to witness this rare occasion of his finally opening up. But then Quinn’s cell rang. The second he heard the voice on the other end, that glacier curtain came down. Work, of course. Something had come up and they needed to call him in.
    “Are you going to a crime scene?” I asked after he flipped closed his cell and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
    “Yeah.”
    “Tucker’s managing downstairs tonight,” I told him. “Stop in and ask for a tray of lattes to go. On the house.”
    He thanked me, and I walked him to my duplex’s door. Then, on the landing above the service staircase, he stopped.
    “Mike? Did you need something else?”
    He just stood there, looking down, as if considering his answer. “Thanks,” he said, then without another word, he was gone.

     

    Hiding in the crowd of tenants, the Genius watched the tall, broad-shouldered detective in the dark brown coat case the crime scene.
    “Sorry, Mike. Sorry to pull you in.”
    “It’s all right. What have you got?”
    “Jumper.”
    Uniformed police had already cordoned off the area around the body and were scanning it for evidence. But it was a waste of effort. They’d quickly come to the same conclusion as the other cops at the other crime scenes—suicide.
    Ms. Inga Berg, they would assume, had said goodnight to her big date earlier than expected…because taking off one’s panties may get you sex, but it doesn’t guarantee a long night of lovemaking by any stretch. After retiring for the evening, Inga had decided to take the elevator to the rooftop parking area, walk to the edge, and somersault over the banister.
    Inga Berg, they would conclude, had leaped to her death.
    “Objective achieved,” whispered the Genius.
    Slipping away was the last task left, before the police began to question the tenants. This being a new building, few of the tenants would know each other. These people would naturally assume the Genius to be just another tenant, or friend of a tenant. So departing would be easy.
    But the Genius couldn’t leave just yet. It was too good a feeling, seeing the handiwork appreciated for the first time. The tape being put up, the police photographer snapping photos, the chalk being drawn, the detective staring up into the cold, black night, estimating the trajectory of the body’s fall, then snapping on latex gloves to gently examine the woman’s smashed body.
    She looked a bit like she was sleeping actually, except for the splattering of blood and brain matter.
    Inga Berg’s white shoes had been torn off in the fall, but she was still clothed in the white fur-trimmed parka, beneath it, the cream silk negligee with lace trim, her long, dyed hair a blonde mop across her face.
    The Genius watched the detective crouch down, tenderly push the long blonde hair away, to reveal staring brown eyes, a mouth frozen open forever.
    This was just too good. Seeing the accomplishment like this.
    The Genius almost didn’t notice the detective rising, turning, scanning the crowd.
    Time to slip away, the Genius decided. Slip away…slip away… And after slithering slowly backward through the heart of the crowd, that’s exactly what the Genius did.

F IVE
    N OT pretty.
    Not a disaster by any means. But definitely