Suspicion by Christiane Heggan

opening. He couldn’t see a thing. It was pitch-black inside. And silent as a tomb, which convinced him that if a robbery had taken place, the robber was long gone.
      He gave two short knocks. "Ms. Lamont? You okay?" When there was no reply, he pushed the door wider. "Ms. Lamont?" he repeated, embarrassed that his voice was shaking. "You in there?"
      Although he didn’t spook easily, the stillness reminded him of the house-to-house search he and three army buddies had conducted in Kuwait during the early stages of the Gulf War. His heart had been lodged in his throat at the thought of some fanatic Iraqi soldier jumping him from behind. But this was different. This time, he was alone, with no backup unit in the vicinity and no walkie-talkie to send out a distress call.
      He swallowed hard and walked in, cursing softly as he
      bumped into a table. At last, he located a switch and turned on the lights.
      The living room, which he had seen only at Christmastime when Ms. Lamont gave him his present, was as he remembered it-elegantly furnished and orderly.
      Calling out her name again, this time much louder, Danny walked around a chair and hurried down the hall. He stopped in front of an open door, searched for a light switch and flipped it.
      "God Almighty."
      In the middle of the room, an enormous brass bed held center stage. And on that bed, lying on her back with her arms spread out wide, was Ms. Lamont.
      Reacting on sheer reflex, Danny dropped his canvas bag on the thick white carpet and ran toward her. "Ms. Lamont-" The name caught in his throat as he came to a halt.
      Although there was no blood on her, he had seen enough dead people during his seven months in the Gulf to know that this one was as dead as they came. Her eyes, frozen in an expression that had turned glassy, bulged out of their sockets, and there were deep red marks at the base of her neck.
      "Jesus." His heart hammering, he looked around for a phone, saw one on the nightstand and picked it up. With trembling fingers, he dialed 911.
    Six
      His hands in his pockets, Mitch Calhoon made a slow circuit of the room, taking in every detail-the slick black-and-white furniture, the white carpeting, already filthy from police traffic, the partially open closet crammed with expensive clothes. Finally, and with great reluctance, he let his gaze rest on the dead woman on the bed.
      No matter how much he tried to distance himself from the victims, death always affected him profoundly. Especially when it involved a young woman in the prime of life, or a teenager who had thought himself invincible. When it was a child, it was even tougher.
      All the dispatcher had said when he called was that the victim was female and had apparently died of strangulation.
      A two- man team from the Crime Scene Unit had arrived moments before and was going about its business, quietly and methodically recording the scene and collecting evidence. Outside the apartment door, a uniformed policeman kept the gawkers, mostly neighbors, at bay.
      His eyes on the woman, Mitch crossed the room and came to stand by the big brass bed. Although death had changed her dramatically, the photograph on the night stand showed a beautiful woman with long, shiny black
      hair, brown eyes and the kind of cheekbones that would make a high-fashion model green with envy.
      As a CSU photographer crouched to take another picture of the dead woman, Joe McCormack, the uniformed officer who had first arrived at the scene, approached, notebook in hand.
      "Who found the body, Joe?" Mitch asked.
      McCormack, a tall, heavyset man with twenty years on the force, nodded toward a corner of the room where a young man in jeans and a blue parka sat, watching the activity around him with a half-dazed expression. "Paperboy. Says his name is Danny Bronson. He’s been delivering the Post to this address for the last three years." He glanced at his notes. "He found the body