Dead by Any Other Name Read Online Free Page A

opposite of suicidal. And I don’t think it was an accident. I was with her that morning, she was way too preoccupied to drive all the way up to the top of Platte Clove and set off on a hike. Plus that kid was less of a hiker type than I am. It just doesn’t compute.”
    â€œDon’t you think the police are looking into every possible scenario?” Abba asked.
    â€œI don’t know, Abba, you remember what happened with the Daphne Livingston case.”
    â€œI do.”
    I stood up. “Listen, I’m going to head out.”
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œSuddenly I’m in the mood for a little hike.”

eight
    Hiking is one of those activities that sound fun in theory. In reality hikes are a huge fat bore; I know because Zack, my alleged boyfriend, has dragged me on a few. The problem is you’re stuck on a trail that climbs through woods, and after ten minutes of tromping it’s “oh wow, how exciting, more goddamn trees” (I’m sorry but trees are overrated, they’re just ginormous weeds). Then there’s the fear factor, especially round about late afternoon when you’re stuck on some dark narrow track and you know if you dawdle too long the trees will close over you and the woods will swallow you up and you’ll never be heard from again. I mean, do you think it’s an accident that in fairy tales the woods are always a metaphor for terror and death? Those Grimm Brothers knew what they were talking about. I’ll take a nice long walk around a lake, a swamp, or a strip mine over a hike in the woods.
    At least with the Platte Clove—which is a narrow gorge between Kaaterskill High Peak and Plattekill Mountain—there’s a rushing stream to distract you. Zack lives in West Sawyerville near the bottom of the clove, and we’ve hiked up it a little ways in the summer to cool off in one of the swimming holes. But Natasha died at the top, so I drove up the narrow seasonal road that runs above the stream. At the top I parked and followed a trail leading into the woods, toward the heart of the gorge and the stream.
    The trail zigzagged downward and then began to run along a wide ledge, I could hear the stream but not see it. A little ways farther the ledge narrowed and then the trail was cordoned off by police tape. I slipped under the tape and walked closer to the lip of the ledge. It overlooked a waterfall that I pegged at about 100 feet high. At the base of the waterfall was a pool surrounded by huge rocks; if you fell you’d smash open your skull like a melon. My stomach turned over. I have this thing about heights— they scare the shit out of me.
    I couldn’t imagine Natasha throwing herself off this ledge. I suppose I could imagine her slipping, but that would mean she was up here hiking, which didn’t seem at all likely to me. I could imagine someone pushing her. In many ways, it would be the perfect crime. One quick shove and it’s arrivederci , baby. No evidence, no clues except maybe shoeprints, and the storm that night no doubt washed those away. I grabbed onto a tree and craned my neck forward for a better view— whoa.
    â€œJanet, what the hell are you doing up here?”
    I turned around and saw Detective Chevrona Williams of the New York State Police squinting at me, hands on her hips. As usual, she radiated this sexy, understated authority that reminded me of a young Clint Eastwood—if Clint was a black chick. Also as usual, a frisson of je ne sais quoi (oh all right, I sais quoi ) shot through me. Which was weird, since I’m straight (my only lesbo experience was that night in 8th grade when me and Laurie Goldberg stole a fifth of Bacardi from her parents’ liquor cabinet, drank half of it, and diddled each other—just when it was getting fun, Laurie puked). At least I think I’m straight.
    â€œJust admiring the view.”
    â€œAnd breaking the law.”
    I ran my