LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

nodded, but Al’s tone was curt, his expression surly as he said, “Yeah.”

      “That’s ‘yeah, sir,’ Sharp.”

      “Yeah, sir.” Al stood and gave a mock salute.

      “What’s your plan, Jimmy?” Gabe asked. “Al knows people around here. Who do you want him to question?”

      “Concentrate on the people who heard little Tommy Poston crying on Pacific Way that morning,” Jimmy said. He remained seated, one leg crossed casually over the other as he looked up at the patrol cop. “Did he tell them anything?”

      “You know the kid’s not talking.” Al’s attempt to hide his annoyance came across as a sneer he turned into a cough.

      “Yes, I know,” Jimmy said. “But he might have been then, in his fear and excitement. In any event, talk to those people.”

      “I have.”

      “I know,” Gabe told him.

      Al’s glance signaled a hint of relief, as if he believed Gabe was about to support him. Wrong.

      “I read your report,” Gabe continued. “But there’s a lot that isn’t in it. Talk to them again. Did they see anything else? Hear anything besides Tommy? I want to know everything from exactly what each of them was eating for breakfast at Naranja Diner that morning when they heard Tommy scream, to how many times it made them belch. How foggy did the marine layer make the air, or could they see anything or anyone along Pacific Way? Got it?”

      “Yeah—er, yeah, sir,” he amended as he met Gabe’s eye.

      Only then did Gabe let the patrol cop escape his office.

      “You figure he’ll get those answers?” Jimmy asked dryly.

      “What do you think?”

      Jimmy grinned as he stood and walked toward the door. He turned back to Gabe. “I think I’ll do some follow-up myself.”

      “You got it,” Gabe said. “And while you’re at it—”

      “Yeah, yeah. If I can be subtle enough, I’ll see if anyone knows anything about the other situation.” Jimmy left the office.

      What next? Gabe wondered.

      He decided to call Holly, and ask her…what? Something to do with the case, like… Nothing. He was merely looking for an excuse to call her this morning, fool that he was.

      Forget the call.

      Shaking his head, he went to the file cabinet. Extracting a folder labeled Poston, he thumbed through it.

      The physical evidence was minimal and inconclusive. The murder weapon was something sharp, like a knife, but hadn’t been found at the scene. Sheldon Sperling had said a decorative letter opener, part of his artsy stock, seemed to be missing. His shop had been dusted for fingerprints, scoured for hairs and other clues, but it was open to the public. Even if everything could be identified, it still might not point to the perpetrator.

      Sperling. He’d been hit on the head and didn’t remember much. But he was a person Gabe wanted to question himself, a lot more than he’d been able to at Holly’s after Poston’s funeral.

      And if he just happened, in Sperling’s shop, to see some of the needlework created by Holly Poston…

      He was becoming obsessed with the woman, damn it, and he’d only just met her.

      No. He was obsessed with the case. She was an integral part of it. Thomas Poston’s murder was his first big challenge as the head of the N.B.P.D.—his first big official challenge. He would solve it, and quickly. And, hopefully, the unofficial assignment, too.

      But as soon as the Poston case was solved, he would let the others on his force play guardian angel to the Postons.

      GABE DIDN’T MAKE it to Sheldon’s shop as anticipated. While driving his department-issued brown sedan along Naranja Avenue toward Pacific Way, he saw a familiar vehicle. Holly Poston’s bright red minivan was parked at a meter along the street.

      Where was she? He pulled over at a yellow line—one of the perks of his job—and looked around. City Hall, where the N.B.P.D. offices were located, was a mile behind him. In this area, Naranja Avenue contained rows of low-rise stucco office buildings and a few retail shops—much less trendy than those along Pacific Way. Two blocks down was Naranja Community Hospital.

      Gabe wasn’t able to guess where, around here, Holly had gone. But then he spotted her, hand in hand with Tommy, emerging from the nearest building. It contained mostly medical offices.

      His insides compressed as if in a vise. Was one of them ill?

      He exited his car and approached them.

      Holly looked tired. Her lovely dark eyes drooped, and the dark circles beneath them had grown larger.

      But somehow the sight of her spurred not only his sympathy but sexual stirrings, too. Again. The heat he felt looking at her wasn’t only from the strong California sun that beat down on the avenue on this midsummer afternoon. Not at all.

      Holly was dressed in jeans and a form-fitting short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off every soft curve. Curves that just begged to be touched….

      Idiot, he berated himself. Or was it pervert?

      Holly watched her cute little son, who was clinging to her hand but lagging behind. He was in bright red shorts, a navy T-shirt and sandals.

      “Holly?”

      She looked up quickly, a startled expression on her face.

      “Sorry,” Gabe said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just driving by and saw your van.” He glanced behind her toward the medical building. “Is everything okay?”

      “Sure,” she said, her tone a shade too bright. “We just came to see the doctor.” She knelt down beside her son and gave him a hug. But Tommy looked listless and didn’t hug back.

      Gabe’s heart went out to him. To both of them.

      “Tommy woke up a couple of hours after you left,” Holly continued, “and didn’t get back to sleep. He had a bad dream.”

      Stooping down to their level, Gabe read between the lines. Tommy had awakened, crying, after a nightmare and had kept Holly up all night. She was frightened for him. What caring mother wouldn’t be? She had taken him to a doctor. A pediatrician or a psychologist? Poor little Tommy might need both.

      “Did Tommy have a tummy ache?” Gabe asked gently, though he suspected what the answer would be.

      “No.” The frantic expression in Holly’s eyes suggested that she had reached her wits’ end and didn’t know how to help her scared son. “We saw Tommy’s new doctor again, a special one who likes to talk to children and likes them to talk to her, too.”

      “I hope it was a good visit,” Gabe said. But he could tell from Holly’s demeanor that it hadn’t been, that Tommy hadn’t opened up even to a specialist.

      “It was a fine visit,” she said nonetheless, her voice falsely cheerful. “It was so good that we’re going back to see the doctor again next week. And maybe then Tommy will take his turn and talk, too.”

      “Great. How about if I come over tonight and read Tommy another bedtime story. Would that be all right with you, sport?” Gabe held his breath. Tommy obviously had something he was keeping inside. Gabe wasn’t an expert like the doctor they’d seen. He wasn’t likely to be any more successful at extracting whatever it was from the child. But someone had to, for Tommy’s sake, as well as for the investigation. And Gabe was going to try. He’d gotten one word from the boy, at least. Maybe he could get more.

      He allowed himself to breathe again when, very slowly and solemnly, the sweet-faced child nodded.

      Gabe stood. “Great. You guys like pizza?”

Скачать книгу