Death Match Read Online Free Page B

converted into restaurants. In the closest window he made out a sign for The Roastery. A public location, near the water, had seemed best. It had a low threat-factor. Lunch had seemed inappropriate, under the circumstances. Besides, recent inpatient studies at Johns Hopkins showed that grieving people were more responsive to external stimuli during the morning hours. Midmorning coffee seemed ideal. It would be calm, conducive to talk. Lash glanced at his watch. Ten-twenty, on the dot.
    Inside, The Roastery was all he’d hoped for: high tin ceilings, beige walls, a low hum of conversation. The delicious fragrance of freshly ground coffee hung in the air. He’d arrived early to make sure he got a suitable table, and he chose a large round one in a corner near the front windows. He took the seat facing the corner; it was important for the subject to feel in control of the situation.
    He’d barely had time to place the satchel on the table and arrange himself when he heard footsteps approaching. “Mr. Berger?” came a voice.
    Lash turned around. “Yes. You’re Mr. Torvald?”
    The man had thick, iron-gray hair and the leathery sunburnt skin of a man fond of the water. His faded blue eyes still bore the dark circles of heartbreak. Yet his resemblance to the picture Lash had just viewed in his car was remarkable. Older, masculine, shorter hair; otherwise, it could have been Lindsay Thorpe, returned from the dead.
    Out of long habit, Lash betrayed no expression. “Please, take a seat.”
    Torvald settled himself into the corner chair. He looked briefly around the restaurant, without interest, then settled his gaze on Lash.
    “Allow me to convey my deepest condolences. And thank you very much for coming.”
    Torvald grunted.
    “I realize that this must be a very difficult period for you. I’ll try to make this short—”
    “No, no, it’s all right.” Torvald’s voice was very deep, and he spoke in short, staccato sentences.
    A waitress approached their table, offered them menus.
    “I don’t think we’ll need those,” Torvald said. “Coffee, black, no sugar.”
    “Same for me, please.”
    The woman nodded, swirled, and left them in peace. She was attractive, but Lash noticed Torvald did not even glance at her departing form.
    “You’re an insurance readjustor,” Torvald said.
    “I’m an analyst for a consulting firm employed by American Life.” One of the first pieces of information Lash sought out on the Thorpes had been their insurance policies. Three million dollars each, payable to their only daughter. As he’d anticipated, it was a quick and relatively easy way to get neutral access to the closest relatives. He’d gone to the trouble of having phony business cards printed up, but Torvald didn’t ask to see one. Despite his obvious pain, the man retained a habitual air of gruff command, as if he was used to having orders quickly obeyed. A naval captain, perhaps, or a corporate executive; Lash had not dug deep into the family background. Corporate executive seemed more likely, though: given the amount Eden charged for its service, it was likely daddy had helped bankroll Lindsay Thorpe.
    Lash cleared his throat, put on his best sympathetic manner. “If you wouldn’t mind answering just a few questions, it would be very helpful to us. If you find any of them objectionable, or if you feel it necessary to stop for a while, I’ll certainly understand.”
    The waitress returned. Lash took a sip of his coffee, then opened the satchel and pulled out a legal pad. “How close were you to your daughter as she was growing up, Mr. Torvald?” he began.
    “Extremely.”
    “And after she left home?”
    “We spoke every day.”
    “Overall, how would you characterize her physical health?”
    “Excellent.”
    “Did she take any medications on a regular basis?”
    “Vitamin supplements. A mild antihistamine. That’s about it.”
    “What was the antihistamine for?”
    “Dermatographia.”
    Lash nodded, made