Angel With a Bullet Read Online Free

some effort, I manage not to shudder. His cuteness factor has dropped so far below my minimum, it’s no longer on the radar. It’s a pity sometimes when they open their mouths.
    â€œYou I.D. the victim?” I ask.
    â€œMailbox says Mr. Diego Chino. Neighbor said he lived alone, some kind of famous artist.”
    â€œThat what made you tip off my editor?”
    Silence.
    I move on. “Neighbor sure it’s him?”
    The young officer winks at his partner. “She didn’t feel up to helping us look for his face.”
    _____
    Detective Sergeant Frank Fury storms into the apartment with trench coat flapping and bare hands curled into fists the size of boiled hams. He is ready for a challenge and appears mildly disappointed when the two officers merely gawp and retreat.
    â€œAh, crap,” he grumbles while looking at the body. “What a bloody mess.”
    The two uniformed officers physically shrink as Frank’s glare falls upon them. Then he spots me.
    â€œHow in hell did you get here?”
    â€œCab,” I say dryly. “Driver’s name was Charlie Parker, but he claims not to be musical. Not sure I believed him.”
    Frank rubs the knot between his eyes. “I’ve got two boys downstairs with strict orders to keep the jackals out of my hair.”
    â€œNot much left to get tangled in.”
    He scowls.
    I show my teeth.
    It’s how we work best.
    Frank and I prowl the same beat, but he doesn’t have the luxury of typing -30- (a nostalgic journalistic holdover from the days of the telegraph that means, quite literally, “No More”) at the end of each story before sending it to press and starting the next. He tends to hold on to the idea of justice too tightly until the frustration oozes from his pores like musk. That fervency has bled into a craggy face with a W. C. Fields nose and shovel-sharp chin, and left its mark most prominently in a pair of predatory, steel-gray eyes.
    His wardrobe does nothing to help, with baggy brown Kmart pants, wrinkled cotton dress shirt, a skinny tie the color of a coffee stain, and a knot so tight you know he never unties it. He wraps it all in a shapeless trench coat that barely envelops his solid 240-pound frame.
    Next to Frank, I look like a juvenile delinquent. He stands eight inches taller than my five-six-in-heels, which means if there’s a moonroof in his severe salt-and-pepper flat top, I can’t tell.
    I move carefully around the edge of the room to stand beside him. I’ve only been on the scene a short time, but already I’ve managed to distance myself. The body on the floor has become more of a puzzle piece than flesh and blood. Perhaps that cold detachment is one reason I have trouble getting second dates.
    â€œHis name is Diego Chino,” I volunteer. “He’s an artist.”
    â€œNever heard of him.”
    â€œHe’s big if you move in the right circles.”
    â€œI get dizzy easy.”
    We both smirk.
    â€œLooks like suicide,” I say.
    Frank nods.
    â€œBut might not be,” I add.
    Frank flares his nostrils. “Go on.”
    â€œNotice the canvas?”
    â€œThe one covered in blood?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œIt’s brilliant.”
    â€œCome again.”
    â€œThe raw power of it,” I explain. “That piece is going to be worth a fortune.”
    â€œOnce you clean the blood off?”
    â€œNo. The blood is the paint. The positioning of the canvas and direction of the gun blast was intentional. It’s a modern masterpiece.”
    â€œYou’re one sick pup.”
    â€œWait and see. I won’t be surprised if Diego’s agent has a buyer by morning.”
    Frank holds up one hand. From heel to tip, it is larger than my entire face.
    â€œOK,” he says. “Let’s say this painting is valuable. Why does that rule out suicide?”
    â€œDiego was a publicity machine. He courted