Zuni Stew: A Novel by Kent Jacobs Read Free Book Online

here, I’m constantly fighting a cold. I don’t know why I feel compelled to give you some advice, Agent Wilson. Maybe it’s because I’ll be out of here soon and he can’t do anything else to belittle me. You’re about to enter the bullring where that man will find your weak spots, open them like wounds, pour salt on them, eat you up and spit out your tiny bones. He’s chewed my skinny butt so many times, I have to sit on a hemorrhoid pillow.”
    Standing, Yolanda was tall, barely one-hundred-twenty pounds. Quite stately. Long, beautiful legs. By her candor, Lori wondered if she had been drinking, but decided she was high on indignation and using her as a vent, an outlet.
    “Forewarned is....”
    “Es cierto, Agent Wilson. Allow me to escort you. Scream if you need help. I’d love to have the opportunity to catch him brutalizing a female agent and press charges.” She took Lori by her arm as if she was going to guide her down the aisle to her own wedding. “I’m a fifth generation American, but he treats me like his maid. Cuidado, mí niña, with him. My Grandmother, gracias a Díos , used to tell me to squeeze my buttocks tight enough to hold a dime. Then stand up straight and look at my foes in the eyes.” Yolanda raised a bronzed hand, tapped at double doors, opened them slightly, and said, “Special Agent Wilson to see you, sir.”
    “You’re on time, Agent Wilson,” said Special Agent Brooks, instructing her to take a seat at the table at the end of his corner suite. Next to where the blue and gold flag of the bureau flanked the stars and stripes. Blinds closed, lamps dim. Conservative furniture—leather sofa and matching chairs in front of the desk. A pair of Chinese vases on the conference table. Her first time she had been in the hallowed office. She had no idea why she was there.
    “You collect oriental antiques?”
    “My wife does. She’s Chinese; she has a small shop on Rush Street. Are you interested in oriental stuff?”
    “Not at my pay grade.”
    Brooks held a plastic cup filled with ice. He tossed a few cubes in his mouth. Crunch. Another crunch, like fingernails on a blackboard. His face was as white as his buttondown shirt. Red lips, greying temples.
    He swallowed. “You’ll be serving the Bureau only on this case. You will answer to me. Everything I say to you is confidential. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He slid a large manila envelope to her. “Photos of a recent homicide.”
    She shuffled through the stack of horrific pictures. “What kind of motive or need would the killer possibly have to do this?” Brooks ignored her query. She arranged the photos on the table side-by-side. “Who are they?”
    “Wealthy Italians, Pasquale D’Amico, his family, the maid and dog. There is one son not accounted for—he wasn’t at home.”
    One family member at large. A problem for someone. “Who found them?”
    “Pasquale’s half-brother, Gabriel D’Amico. He says he went by to talk to Pasquale around eight o’clock in the morning. When no one answered the front door, he went around back and found the door unlocked. He called Winnetka police immediately. The chief up there knew the family.” Brooks paced the floor, shaking the ice cup, speaking as if she wasn’t there. “The chief’s a friend of mine from college; he got hold of me right away.”
    He slid another photo in front of her. “This is Gabriel D’Amico. At this point, he’s the only member of the family who knows about the massacre. I told him not to tell anyone anything. There will be no obituaries, nothing.”
    “He agreed to keep quiet?”
    “You bet he did—he knows who I am. He’s taking this pretty damn hard. He’s rich, I’m told, seems to keep to himself, just a maid and him in a big house. He’s not as flamboyant or well known as his brother.”
    “You said half-brother.” Why was the FBI involved? This is a police matter. What did his police friend know? Why the hush-hush? It didn’t