Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 4) Read Online Free Page B

plus expenses. I
    might even toss in some donuts.”
    “Really?” I say. “Dunkin Donuts. Not store bought. I’m
    partial to blueberry cakes.”
    “Absolutely, Chase. Dunkin Donut blueberry cakes. You sure
    drive a hard bargain.”
    “I didn’t go into business with my dad, but some of his
    smarts wore off on me.” Then, “My guess is the couple who lived here left the
    country. That is, they didn’t want to be found. Were they wanted for something
    in particular?”
    “I’m not sure they’re capable of leaving the country much
    less the city, Baker,” he says. “And I’m not entirely sure they’re wanted for
    anything. Don’t let the crime scene tape fool you. That’s why I haven’t called
    the Feds in.”
    “Can you be any more cryptic, Miller?”
    He shoots the professor another look.
    “I’m gonna tell him, Ted,” he says. “I’m gonna spill the
    damn beans.”
    “Can’t hurt,” Ted says.

 
5
     

     
    Miller’s eyes back on me.
    “The couple who’ve lived here for nearly sixty years were
    the first people to occupy the place since Henry, Jr. They recently entered
    into a sale of the historic home to Albany State University—”
    “—which is where I come in.”
    “Yes, which is where Ted comes in.”
    “Excuse me, Detective. But that would be Dr. Balkis if you
    don’t mind.” He says it using his faux Southern accent again.
    Miller goes stone-faced. “Yes, that would be Herr Dr.
    Balkis.” He says Balkis, like Ball Kiss. It gets a snicker out of the driver.
    “In any case, Baker, the present owners, a Mr. and Mrs. Bill Girvin, are
    pushing ninety. Eccentric couple in that they lived in the house exactly as
    Clara Harris and Henry Rathbone and their family would have lived in it in the
    mid-eighteen hundreds. No running water, no electricity. Fires to heat the
    place…You get my drift. At one time, back in the forties and fifties, they even
    used a horse and buggy to get around town. He can barely walk, and his wife is
    said to be stricken with Alzheimer’s. So I’m not entirely sure they’re capable
    of boarding a plane to Europe much less making it out the front door without
    collapsing onto the front lawn.”
    “Maybe they were kidnaped,” I say.
    Miller nods.
    “Excellent,” he says. “Except for one thing, there’s no sign
    of a break-in. No sign of a struggle. No notes passed on to us asking for a
    ransom from Girvin’s estate which is sizable. More than sizeable, his
    inheritance money older than Lincoln himself. No strange prints anywhere in the
    house.”
    “What’s forensics have to say?”
    “They did their best to check the joint out. But it’s so old
    and who knows the origins of the oddball prints they picked up.”
    “So how do you know something criminal went down here?”
    “What we did find is blood. Small, but still significant
    traces up inside the bedroom where Clara hid the white dress.”
    “Blood,” I repeat. “Who’s blood?”
    “Blood from both Girvins,” Miller says. “Or so the lab
    reports confirm. We also found a .44 caliber pocket cannon on the bed, beside a
    fighting knife, the blade painted red with both Girvin’s DNA.”

 
6
     

     
    “So let me get this straight,” I say after a beat. “The owners
    of this home are missing. They’re almost as old as Lincoln himself, and they
    disappeared without a trace after a Derringer and a fighting knife just like
    the ones used in the Lincoln assassination are discovered up in Clara’s old
    bedroom.”
    “The pistol had been discharged, by the way,” Miller adds.
    “We’ve taken both items into custody, bagged and tagged them as evidence.
    They’re not the original pieces that killed Lincoln and cut Rathbone, but some
    skillfully forged knockoffs. Or so I’m told.”
    Balkis nods.
    “What the hell happened here?” I ask.
    “Something violent causing blood to be spilled. That’s all I
    can conclude until I locate the Girvins, dead or alive.”
    “Are you asking me