Detective D. Case Read Online Free Page B

a
wealthy billionaire who had a company making hotel buildings. The McDermott
franchise was a large one, but what was the point? It had nothing to do with
the case he was going over with the chief both on the phone and in person. A
mystery within a mystery . . .
    Why couldn’t he understand all of this?
Cases were cases, not puzzles to test the crime investigator in him. When he
asked about the McDermott case, the chief told him it was connected. Somehow
Adams had been following closely McDermott’s every step and breath, keeping contact
as a stranger and then a close millionaire friend. How he did it, the chief
didn’t explain. But recently, before his disappearance, Adams had noted in a
journal he left in his house that McDermott was drunk on his money. A couple
days ago he had made an announcement that the world had never heard – an
announcement that on October 18, he would kill himself. What method would be a
huge surprise, he had promised. D. didn’t want to find out.
    Did money need to exist? D. thought this
when he walked down the rainy streets to his apartment building. He needed his
briefcase and a ticket to the subway. Everybody was drunk on greed in this
city, no need to deny it; you’ll just look like a fool. Walking, D. pondered
the idea of money not existing – what would happen then? Could people be
happier than now? He only wished.
    *****
    The
phone call was a stern and furious one for Officer Lincoln Deed. Chief Advert,
their boss, would be speaking with the new detective involved with the
McDermott case, and if he accepted the job, then they’ll be conducting the
search together looking for anything new. However, his voice roared like a
lion’s flame, or a dragon’s fire. The chief was so loud that, in order to
understand him without blowing his ear off, Lincoln held the phone half a foot
away. Even then he felt his ear splitting like wood being chopped.
              “So
what happened to Darren Will?” Lincoln wondered.
              Big
Hands face paled. “He’s dead, you idiot.”
              “Oh,
right.” He hoped the hand that was cupped over the mouthpiece blocked out any
sound he made, especially what he said about the previous investigator, Darren Will.
As if the phone would soon burst, Lincoln lifted his hand from the mouthpiece,
going a few inches up until he knew safety was assured. “Are you still there,
chief?”
              “Yes,
I am.” The chief was fond of using short, blistering sentences when he was aggravated.
              Lincoln
laughed in relief. “I’m sorry for leaving you hung up for a few minutes.”
              “Sorry?”
He asked that question too flat, and without the higher pitch at the end, it
didn’t sound like a question at all. “I heard everything.”
              Lincoln
winced as if the chief had broken a beloved painting, preferably Doré’s The
Creation of Light . Did the chief always have to be this stern, he wondered?
“About the . . .?”
              “Yes.”
              “Everything?”
he asked.
              The
mouthpiece crackled, which meant something. “Don’t waste my time, Deed. Like I
said, there’s going to be someone working with you on the fifth search through
McDermott’s apartment.”
              “Yes,
I remember you saying that,” Lincoln said, “but what was his name? I didn’t get
a chance to hear it with all that . . . racket.”
              “Racket,
eh? More like you weren’t paying attention to what I’m saying!”
              Lincoln
muttered sorry so low not even Big Hands could hear it, and he stood six inches
away from him. “When do you expect he’ll be here?”
              “When
he gets the job, maybe he’ll be there in about a half hour at most. So, on
another note, have any of you found anything new in the apartment?”
              “There’s
nothing new, unfortunately.”