my current state, however—slick with sweat, sticky with blood, sweltering on the hot seat in a weird-looking stranger’s insufferably warm apartment, trying to defend my thoughtless actions at the scene of a brutal murder—well, I couldn’t muster up a snicker, much less a laugh.
I was about to apologize, once again, for the way Abby and I had messed up the evidence at Gray’s apartment—thereby causing a whole lot of confusion and extra work for the medical examiner and crime scene investigators—when one of the uniformed cops who’d been stationed out in the hall marched into Willard Sinclair’s living room and told Detective Flannagan that he was needed next door.
“All right!” Flannagan said, grinning like a kid at an amusement park, obviously raring to return to the recreation at the murder scene. He took off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up the sleeves of his white cotton shirt. “That’ll be all for today, ladies. You’re free to go. We know where you live and we have your phone numbers. But you’re under strict instructions not to leave town, understand? And I want to see you both in my office tomorrow morning at ten.”
“What?!” I sputtered, sounding like Donald Duck on the brink of a breakdown. “Tomorrow is Sunday—the day of rest. Don’t you want to spend it with your family? This is the Fourth of July weekend, for Pete’s sake! We’re all entitled to a little time off.”
Flannagan looked at me and grinned again. “When you’re on the homicide squad, and there’s been a murder, there’s no such thing as time off.” He was having the time of his life. I swear he was. You could tell from the way his small hazel eyes were sparkling. “That goes for the people who discovered the body, too.”
“But we’ve told you everything we know,” Abby said, keeping her anger under admirable control.
“We’ll see about that tomorrow,” he replied. “Ten o’clock sharp.” Hooking his suit jacket on one finger and slinging it over his shoulder, Flannagan turned and headed for the door. Then, just as he was about to step out into the hall, he swung back around and glared at Willard Sinclair, our potbellied host—the queer little man who’d been sitting in shock on a chair in the corner, saying nothing and chewing his nails to the quick.
“As for you , Mr. Sinclair,” Flannagan said, puckering his boyish features in obvious but uncalled-for aversion, “stay right where you are. That’s an order. Don’t set foot outside this apartment. I’ll be back to question you later.”
AS SOON AS FLANNAGAN WAS GONE, Abby let out a humongous groan. “That man is a raving putz !” she croaked, jumping up off the couch and pacing around the living room. “I wanted to knock his snotty block off! He was treating us like we were the ones who killed Gray. He should be spanked. No, he should be fired!”
I agreed with her, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have the energy.
Willard Sinclair, on the other hand, had energy to burn. He sprang out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box, shot across the room in a flash, and then quickly, but ever so quietly, pushed his front door all the way closed. “Oh, mercy me!” he cried, darting back to the middle of the living room and joining Abby in her anxious pacing. He was wringing his hands as well. “What am I going to do now?” he said, speaking with a faint Southern accent I hadn’t noticed before. “That awful little worm is coming back to give me the third degree. I know the way he works! He’ll grill me till I’m limp as a wet noodle, and then he’ll do it all over again, just for fun—like the last time.”
I snapped to attention and sat up straighter on the couch. “The last time? You mean Flannagan has questioned you before? About another murder?” My wheels were spinning like crazy. Could it be that Gray’s peculiar, kimono-wearing next door neighbor was a deranged serial killer?
Sinclair
I was about to apologize, once again, for the way Abby and I had messed up the evidence at Gray’s apartment—thereby causing a whole lot of confusion and extra work for the medical examiner and crime scene investigators—when one of the uniformed cops who’d been stationed out in the hall marched into Willard Sinclair’s living room and told Detective Flannagan that he was needed next door.
“All right!” Flannagan said, grinning like a kid at an amusement park, obviously raring to return to the recreation at the murder scene. He took off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up the sleeves of his white cotton shirt. “That’ll be all for today, ladies. You’re free to go. We know where you live and we have your phone numbers. But you’re under strict instructions not to leave town, understand? And I want to see you both in my office tomorrow morning at ten.”
“What?!” I sputtered, sounding like Donald Duck on the brink of a breakdown. “Tomorrow is Sunday—the day of rest. Don’t you want to spend it with your family? This is the Fourth of July weekend, for Pete’s sake! We’re all entitled to a little time off.”
Flannagan looked at me and grinned again. “When you’re on the homicide squad, and there’s been a murder, there’s no such thing as time off.” He was having the time of his life. I swear he was. You could tell from the way his small hazel eyes were sparkling. “That goes for the people who discovered the body, too.”
“But we’ve told you everything we know,” Abby said, keeping her anger under admirable control.
“We’ll see about that tomorrow,” he replied. “Ten o’clock sharp.” Hooking his suit jacket on one finger and slinging it over his shoulder, Flannagan turned and headed for the door. Then, just as he was about to step out into the hall, he swung back around and glared at Willard Sinclair, our potbellied host—the queer little man who’d been sitting in shock on a chair in the corner, saying nothing and chewing his nails to the quick.
“As for you , Mr. Sinclair,” Flannagan said, puckering his boyish features in obvious but uncalled-for aversion, “stay right where you are. That’s an order. Don’t set foot outside this apartment. I’ll be back to question you later.”
AS SOON AS FLANNAGAN WAS GONE, Abby let out a humongous groan. “That man is a raving putz !” she croaked, jumping up off the couch and pacing around the living room. “I wanted to knock his snotty block off! He was treating us like we were the ones who killed Gray. He should be spanked. No, he should be fired!”
I agreed with her, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have the energy.
Willard Sinclair, on the other hand, had energy to burn. He sprang out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box, shot across the room in a flash, and then quickly, but ever so quietly, pushed his front door all the way closed. “Oh, mercy me!” he cried, darting back to the middle of the living room and joining Abby in her anxious pacing. He was wringing his hands as well. “What am I going to do now?” he said, speaking with a faint Southern accent I hadn’t noticed before. “That awful little worm is coming back to give me the third degree. I know the way he works! He’ll grill me till I’m limp as a wet noodle, and then he’ll do it all over again, just for fun—like the last time.”
I snapped to attention and sat up straighter on the couch. “The last time? You mean Flannagan has questioned you before? About another murder?” My wheels were spinning like crazy. Could it be that Gray’s peculiar, kimono-wearing next door neighbor was a deranged serial killer?
Sinclair
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