Hardy 11 - Suspect, The Read Online Free
Author: John Lescroart
kitchen counter. "No." There he paused again, his hands flat on the counter, all of his weight on them. His head flopped forward and Juhle heard the deep exhale of a sigh. "Oh, Jesus," he said again. He picked up the receiver, brought it to his ear, then placed it back down on the counter. "I've got to do this myself."
Juhle left him like that, working up the strength to make the call.
Leaving the kitchen, the inspector looked left through the large, high-ceilinged living room. Beyond the cop stationed at the front door, he could see that, sure enough, a couple of Minicams and their news crews had arrived. He wasn't about to talk to them, not at this stage anyway. Instead he turned to his right and walked through a leather-couch kind of book-lined den and out onto the enclosed deck.
The body lay covered now with a sheet that still clung in wet places. A police photographer was snapping pictures of the hot tub and deck. Behind him, some ME assistants were wheeling a collapsible gurney through the house. Two other officers in uniform were down the steps in the backyard, conversing on the tiny fenced lawn.
In shirtsleeves, Lennard Faro, lean and dark with a well-trimmed black goatee, was a lab specialist with the Crime Scene Investigation unit. Seeing Juhle at the back door, he closed his cell phone and walked over.
"He break yet? The husband?" Faro asked.
"He wasn't here. He was up in the mountains. You're saying this is a homicide?"
A shrug. Faro wasn't going to commit until the medical examiner had drawn his conclusions and he himself had spent some time in the lab. Still, he said, "She's got an impressive, and I'd guess recent, bump over her right ear."
"Enough to kill her?"
"We won't know until the autopsy, but I'd say it's not impossible."
"How long has she been dead?"
Faro frowned. "The hot tub's going to screw that calculation up for a while. Nobody's going to know until we get cutting on her. Body temp's way up, but that's what you'd expect when the water's still at one-oh-five."
The number struck a chord. "Exactly one-oh-five?"
"Pretty close. The thermometer's still . . . why? That a magic number?"
"No. It's nothing." Juhle didn't want to start a rumor. He'd get what he could, then see where it led him. "Any sign of what caused the bump?"
"Maybe. We found some broken glass, plus one big piece, up against the bottom of the tub. Some still have a whiff of wine on ’em. Another empty glass was in the sink. The rest of the broken glass and an empty bottle was in the compactor in the kitchen."
"So she was drinking?"
"Maybe. Blood alcohol will tell."
"The husband said she's got Vicodin upstairs in their bedroom. He thinks it's a suicide."
Faro pulled at his goatee. "She hit herself on the head?"
"Maybe she fell first. Slipped on the wet wood."
Faro was still scratching at his beard, without comment, as the two uniforms came up the four steps and onto the deck. The older one—thirty pounds on the wrong side of healthy, with jowls and a walrus mustache—introduced himself as Captain Allen Marsten from Central Station on Vallejo. The other man was Jerry Jarrett. Marsten told Juhle that they had been the first ones to arrive after the 911 call. He was just getting off his graveyard shift when the call had come in.
Did Juhle need anything else from him? If not, since now the scene was secure, he wouldn't mind going home and getting some shut-eye, and he didn't think Sergeant Jarrett would mind it either.
"Anything either of you feel like I ought to know?" Juhle asked.
Marsten looked at his partner, got a shrug, then worked his lips for a moment under his hanging mustache. "Nothing jumps out at me. He—the husband—left the front door open for us and we made it here in I'd say two, three minutes after the call came in. We come inside and he's got her out of the tub and on the deck where she's lying now, still trying to do CPR on her, although you could see a mile away it was too late for that."
"So he
Juhle left him like that, working up the strength to make the call.
Leaving the kitchen, the inspector looked left through the large, high-ceilinged living room. Beyond the cop stationed at the front door, he could see that, sure enough, a couple of Minicams and their news crews had arrived. He wasn't about to talk to them, not at this stage anyway. Instead he turned to his right and walked through a leather-couch kind of book-lined den and out onto the enclosed deck.
The body lay covered now with a sheet that still clung in wet places. A police photographer was snapping pictures of the hot tub and deck. Behind him, some ME assistants were wheeling a collapsible gurney through the house. Two other officers in uniform were down the steps in the backyard, conversing on the tiny fenced lawn.
In shirtsleeves, Lennard Faro, lean and dark with a well-trimmed black goatee, was a lab specialist with the Crime Scene Investigation unit. Seeing Juhle at the back door, he closed his cell phone and walked over.
"He break yet? The husband?" Faro asked.
"He wasn't here. He was up in the mountains. You're saying this is a homicide?"
A shrug. Faro wasn't going to commit until the medical examiner had drawn his conclusions and he himself had spent some time in the lab. Still, he said, "She's got an impressive, and I'd guess recent, bump over her right ear."
"Enough to kill her?"
"We won't know until the autopsy, but I'd say it's not impossible."
"How long has she been dead?"
Faro frowned. "The hot tub's going to screw that calculation up for a while. Nobody's going to know until we get cutting on her. Body temp's way up, but that's what you'd expect when the water's still at one-oh-five."
The number struck a chord. "Exactly one-oh-five?"
"Pretty close. The thermometer's still . . . why? That a magic number?"
"No. It's nothing." Juhle didn't want to start a rumor. He'd get what he could, then see where it led him. "Any sign of what caused the bump?"
"Maybe. We found some broken glass, plus one big piece, up against the bottom of the tub. Some still have a whiff of wine on ’em. Another empty glass was in the sink. The rest of the broken glass and an empty bottle was in the compactor in the kitchen."
"So she was drinking?"
"Maybe. Blood alcohol will tell."
"The husband said she's got Vicodin upstairs in their bedroom. He thinks it's a suicide."
Faro pulled at his goatee. "She hit herself on the head?"
"Maybe she fell first. Slipped on the wet wood."
Faro was still scratching at his beard, without comment, as the two uniforms came up the four steps and onto the deck. The older one—thirty pounds on the wrong side of healthy, with jowls and a walrus mustache—introduced himself as Captain Allen Marsten from Central Station on Vallejo. The other man was Jerry Jarrett. Marsten told Juhle that they had been the first ones to arrive after the 911 call. He was just getting off his graveyard shift when the call had come in.
Did Juhle need anything else from him? If not, since now the scene was secure, he wouldn't mind going home and getting some shut-eye, and he didn't think Sergeant Jarrett would mind it either.
"Anything either of you feel like I ought to know?" Juhle asked.
Marsten looked at his partner, got a shrug, then worked his lips for a moment under his hanging mustache. "Nothing jumps out at me. He—the husband—left the front door open for us and we made it here in I'd say two, three minutes after the call came in. We come inside and he's got her out of the tub and on the deck where she's lying now, still trying to do CPR on her, although you could see a mile away it was too late for that."
"So he
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