Before Another Dies Read Online Free

ambulance, right?”
    I had forgotten that he mentioned an ambulance was at the scene. “That’s true.” Why was there an ambulance out front? Had someone gotten hurt? I immediately thought of West. My curiosity revved up. “I don’t know, Floyd. Maybe . . .” Maybe what? “I think I’ll go see.” I stood and rounded the desk. Floyd reluctantly stepped to the side. He looked like he wanted to ask something but was weighing all the possible answers. “Sure, you can come with me.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYeah, really.”

chapter 3
    M ost days I love being mayor. It adds order and purpose to my life.
    Other days, I would sell the whole thing to the first person who walked into my office with a dime in his hand. Fortunately, those days are rare. Most mornings my job compels me out of bed, draws me to the office where I deal with matters that would cure most insomniacs. Zoning laws, budgets, taxes, ten-minute meetings that last hours, documents written by state lawyers, county lawyers, and even federal lawyers pile up every week. In all the tedium, despite the infighting, I find a sense of purpose. And purpose is more than a luxury in my life.
    I live alone. Not by choice. Well, partly by choice. Nine years ago, Peter Glenn, businessman, sales executive for his father’s commercial flooring company, kissed me good-bye in the morning and drove to his death in Los Angeles. The city of Angeles was a familiar place to Peter. He was a principle in his father’s firm, a company that manufactured flooring for large commercial buildings. Much of what they made ended up adorning the concrete floors of high-rise office buildings. It sounds boring, but it was the wind in Peter’s sails. He loved the business, the travel, the sales, and the interaction with clients.
    It was after a meeting with one of those clients that two men decided they deserved Peter’s yellow BMW Z3 Roadster more than he did. In LA they call it carjacking. Peter was not inclined to give things away, especially his car. He was not brave to the point of stupidity, but intimidation was not a natural response for him. His hesitancy cost him his life.
    The call came at 10:12 that evening. To this day, I tense if the phone rings after dark.
    Glenn Structural Materials carried a large life insurance policy on Peter. It paid off the house and gave me investment money to live on. Peter’s father still pays his son’s salary. He has for the last nine years. Twice a month an executive-size check arrives in the mail and no matter how much I protest, Peter’s father continues to send them. “Twice a month,” he once told me, “I can pretend that my son is still alive.”
    Murder kills more than one life.
    We married young, Peter and I. I was still in my senior year of college at San Diego State University. San Diego was home for Peter. I majored in political science and he in business. He was movie-poster handsome, with eyes that seemed to give more light than they received. Our years together were good, but too few. People tell me that someday, I’ll get over his murder.
    No one gets over a murder.
    So I live alone, in a three-thousand-square-foot house on the beach. It’s a beautiful place, but even places of beauty have dark corners.
    Peter was on my mind as I exited my office with Floyd following closer than my shadow. Almost a decade had passed and I’d adjusted to the solo life and to the fact that two hoods with a hand gun widowed me, but certain things launched the old memories. Seeing a dead body in a car added to the list. But, like Floyd, I was eager to know what else was going on in the front parking lot. Less than half an hour had passed since I walked into the office and less than an hour since I had called Chief Webb, but my curiosity had reached the outer limits of its patience.
    We walked down the corridor and into a larger area filled with a half-dozen