Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter Read Online Free
Author: Lee Goldberg
remaining photos showed Lowell and LeSabre in bed.
Monette flung the photos onto the passenger seat and grabbed the steering wheel for support.
The bastard was cheating on her. With her daughter.
It didn't matter that LeSabre wasn't his flesh and blood.
It didn't matter that LeSabre was an adult now.
LeSabre was his stepdaughter . The child he'd raised since she was twelve years old.
Monette knew it wasn't her daughter's fault at all. LeSabre was a victim of a vile, perverted sicko who took advantage of her trust, her obedience, and her love.
Lowell had ruined her sweet LeSabre's future. His despicable acts were something the girl would never forget. It would be with her every moment of her life.
It was unforgivable. It was unbearable.
Monette gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles were white.
She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She couldn't see.
Monette felt as if she was being buried alive, deep in the cold, dark earth. She was being smothered. There was nothing she could do to save herself.
And then, as quickly as all the panic had descended upon her, it disappeared leaving perfect clarity and calm.
Monette didn't feel angry. She didn't feel hurt. She didn't feel anything. She didn't need to feel anymore. She was a creature of single purpose who existed now to do just one thing.
The man on the gurney was in his early forties and looked pretty relaxed, considering his situation. He was bleeding from a deep gash on his forehead, a cut on his lip, and a scrape on his prominent chin. Both of his arms were obviously broken, tucked close to his chest and supported by crude cardboard splints made by the paramedics who wheeled him into the Community General emergency room. He wore a bloodstained aloha shirt, baggy shorts, and leather flip-flops. Judging by the tan lines on his face, he'd only recently started cutting his hair very short in a futile attempt to hide the sprinkle of gray and halt the eternal march of time.
Dr. Mark Sloan, Community General's chief of internal medicine, had seen a hundred patients with injuries just like this during his four decades in medicine. He could guess what had happened.
"Motorcycle accident?" Mark asked.
The man shook his head. "I tripped over the handicapped ramp at McDonald's."
"You're joking," Mark said and glanced incredulously at the paramedic, Nestor Cody, a seasoned fire department veteran who'd been wheeling patients into the ER for years.
"It's true, Doc," Nestor said. "Mr. Copeland was walking out of the restaurant with his Happy Meal and tripped. He hit his head on the curb, but didn't lose consciousness. His elbows must have broken his fall—no pun intended."
Mark turned back to the patient on the gurney. "I don't understand, Mr. Copeland. How could you possibly trip over a ramp? They're flat, with smooth edges. That's what makes them ramps."
"Not this one," Copeland said. "It goes down the middle of the sidewalk, parallel to the curb, gradually declining towards the front of the building. You have to walk across it to get to the parking lot and I didn't see it."
"It wasn't painted or anything?"
"It is now," Copeland said. "With a pint of my blood."
"That's very vivid," Mark said.
The man shrugged and immediately winced at the pain. "I'm a writer."
Mark glanced at Nestor. "Where's his child?"
"What child?" Nestor asked.
"The one he was buying the Happy Meal for," Mark said.
"It was for me," Copeland said.
"You seem a little old to be ordering from the kiddie menu," Mark said.
"I collect the toys. I have a complete collection of McDonald's toys going back to 1967," Copeland said, and then a look of panic washed over his face. "Where's my Earthquake Kitty?"
Nestor reached into his pocket and pulled out the toy, still in its plastic wrap. It was a chubby blue-plastic cat with a jet pack on her back. "Right here."
Copeland sagged with relief. "Thank God. That's the hardest member of the Kitty Crew to find."
Mark turned to the
Monette flung the photos onto the passenger seat and grabbed the steering wheel for support.
The bastard was cheating on her. With her daughter.
It didn't matter that LeSabre wasn't his flesh and blood.
It didn't matter that LeSabre was an adult now.
LeSabre was his stepdaughter . The child he'd raised since she was twelve years old.
Monette knew it wasn't her daughter's fault at all. LeSabre was a victim of a vile, perverted sicko who took advantage of her trust, her obedience, and her love.
Lowell had ruined her sweet LeSabre's future. His despicable acts were something the girl would never forget. It would be with her every moment of her life.
It was unforgivable. It was unbearable.
Monette gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles were white.
She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She couldn't see.
Monette felt as if she was being buried alive, deep in the cold, dark earth. She was being smothered. There was nothing she could do to save herself.
And then, as quickly as all the panic had descended upon her, it disappeared leaving perfect clarity and calm.
Monette didn't feel angry. She didn't feel hurt. She didn't feel anything. She didn't need to feel anymore. She was a creature of single purpose who existed now to do just one thing.
The man on the gurney was in his early forties and looked pretty relaxed, considering his situation. He was bleeding from a deep gash on his forehead, a cut on his lip, and a scrape on his prominent chin. Both of his arms were obviously broken, tucked close to his chest and supported by crude cardboard splints made by the paramedics who wheeled him into the Community General emergency room. He wore a bloodstained aloha shirt, baggy shorts, and leather flip-flops. Judging by the tan lines on his face, he'd only recently started cutting his hair very short in a futile attempt to hide the sprinkle of gray and halt the eternal march of time.
Dr. Mark Sloan, Community General's chief of internal medicine, had seen a hundred patients with injuries just like this during his four decades in medicine. He could guess what had happened.
"Motorcycle accident?" Mark asked.
The man shook his head. "I tripped over the handicapped ramp at McDonald's."
"You're joking," Mark said and glanced incredulously at the paramedic, Nestor Cody, a seasoned fire department veteran who'd been wheeling patients into the ER for years.
"It's true, Doc," Nestor said. "Mr. Copeland was walking out of the restaurant with his Happy Meal and tripped. He hit his head on the curb, but didn't lose consciousness. His elbows must have broken his fall—no pun intended."
Mark turned back to the patient on the gurney. "I don't understand, Mr. Copeland. How could you possibly trip over a ramp? They're flat, with smooth edges. That's what makes them ramps."
"Not this one," Copeland said. "It goes down the middle of the sidewalk, parallel to the curb, gradually declining towards the front of the building. You have to walk across it to get to the parking lot and I didn't see it."
"It wasn't painted or anything?"
"It is now," Copeland said. "With a pint of my blood."
"That's very vivid," Mark said.
The man shrugged and immediately winced at the pain. "I'm a writer."
Mark glanced at Nestor. "Where's his child?"
"What child?" Nestor asked.
"The one he was buying the Happy Meal for," Mark said.
"It was for me," Copeland said.
"You seem a little old to be ordering from the kiddie menu," Mark said.
"I collect the toys. I have a complete collection of McDonald's toys going back to 1967," Copeland said, and then a look of panic washed over his face. "Where's my Earthquake Kitty?"
Nestor reached into his pocket and pulled out the toy, still in its plastic wrap. It was a chubby blue-plastic cat with a jet pack on her back. "Right here."
Copeland sagged with relief. "Thank God. That's the hardest member of the Kitty Crew to find."
Mark turned to the
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