Cold Judgment by Joanne Fluke Page A

the exercise. Jerry shivered as he faced the dark mouth of the tunnel. It seemed filled with menacing shadows. Headlights flashed briefly as a taxi turned into the mall and sped under the bridge. The interior flickered for an instant and then plunged into darkness again.
    He wanted to turn around and find an alternate route, but that would put him off schedule. Jerry chided himself for being silly. He would stiffen up if he hesitated here much longer. He had to maintain his pace.
    Jerry’s breathing quickened as he stepped into the darkness. He would hurry on through and catch the lights on the other end. Some janitor had probably forgotten to turn on the lights. It was certainly nothing to get spooked about.
    The tunnel was very dark now. The snow had turned to sleet and it blew against the windows in staccato blasts. Traffic was stopped for a light at the corner of Sixth Street and not even the strobe of a headlight pierced the darkness.
    Jerry concentrated on his form, unwilling to admit that he was scared. The snow flurries driving against the glass sounded like muted snare drums, ominous and building to some terrible rhythm.
    Instinct told him to turn around and run, but Jerry fought his fear. Dotty would laugh when he told her about this. Only kids were afraid of the dark.
    Left. Right. Left. Right. Jerry quickened his pace in spite of himself. He was almost halfway through. Only a few hundred feet and he would be in the light.
    Traffic was moving again now. Headlights from a passing bus illuminated the shape that stepped out into his path. Jerry’s mouth opened in startled recognition, but before he could blurt out a question, it was too late.

CHAPTER 7
    â€œDamn machine’s broken again!” Curtis Holt turned to Mac in disgust. “Every time I want a cup of coffee, the damn machine breaks down.”
    Mac grinned and unfolded his big frame from the city-issue steel chair. Curt was one of the finest detectives on the force, but he had a real problem with mechanical things. The coffee machine hummed defiantly in the corner of the squad room while Curt stared at it balefully.
    â€œWatch me, Curt.” Mac approached the machine straight on, swaggering a little. The fingers of his right hand brushed lightly against his service holster.
    â€œThis is the police,” he announced in a steely voice. “Hand over that coffee you owe the sergeant or you’re under arrest.”
    Curt laughed as Mac rapped the machine with a nightstick. Then his eyes widened in awe as the paper cup dropped into the tray and coffee poured out. “Son of a bitch!” he breathed. “How did you do that, Mac?”
    â€œYou got to show it who’s boss,” Mac explained sagely. He slid open the little plastic door and handed the cup to Curt. “It’d help if you watched a few more John Wayne movies.”
    â€œThere’s a homicide on the Nicollet Avenue bridge.” Desk Sergeant Reinert stuck his head in the door. “It’s yours, Curt. You wanna drop him off on your way home, Mac?”
    â€œSure.” Mac picked up his file folders and grabbed his coat. “Come on, Curt. I’ll keep you company for a couple of minutes.”
    Both men were tense as Mac turned on Seventh and parked behind the black and whites lined up at the curb. The connecting bridges were the chief’s idea, his pet project to cut down on street crime. Now the expanded Skyway System was the scene of a homicide. Murder in the heart of the downtown shopping area would be bad for business. There would be plenty of pressure from the City Fathers to clean up this case in a hurry.
    Mac and Curt flashed their badges and pushed their way past the officers at the entrance. They took the stairs to the second floor and stopped at the landing to make way for the police photographer on his way back to the station.
    The bridge was a sea of blue uniforms, metal gleaming under the bright fluorescent lights. An area