He Huffed and He Puffed Read Online Free Page B

questions at all. Ozzie’s one of those mercenaries who advertise their services in gun magazines. They’re really something, those ads are. Some of them are nothing more than thinly disguised offers to commit murder for a fee. Ozzie’s ad is one of the thinnest.”
    â€œWhy are you telling me this?” she asked with a show of casualness.
    Strode smiled. “Ozzie tells an interesting story. He says a lady sent him a plane ticket to New Orleans for what he calls a ‘meet’—and meet they did. She was looking for someone to kill two people, an older man and his wife. But then she changed her mind and backed out.” He leaned over the table. “You were that lady, Jo. Ozzie identified you from a picture we showed him. And I have his signature on an affidavit saying so.”
    She was silent a moment and then muttered, “How much did you pay him for that?”
    â€œFive thousand,” Strode answered blandly. “Ozzie’s not the brightest chap in the world—he had no idea how much his identification was really worth. But that’s neither here nor there. What’s significant is the fact that you consulted him about committing two murders for you. You wanted him to kill your parents.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? My father had a coronary and my mother died of insulin overdose!”
    â€œThat’s what their death certificates say, yes. But you and I both know they were helped along. What was the matter, Jo? Just couldn’t wait for a natural death?”
    â€œI didn’t hire Ozzie! You know that!”
    â€œBut I don’t know why. Afraid the killings could be traced to you? Or did you just decide Ozzie didn’t have the brains to do the job the way you wanted it done? It sure as hell wasn’t conscience, because you went ahead and did it yourself. You killed your father, and then you waited a year and you killed your mother.”
    â€œYou’re crazy as a loon.” Jo stood up abruptly, jarring the table.
    â€œHow’d you kill your father, Jo?” Strode asked. “An air bubble in the blood stream? That would look like a coronary, and it seems to me a needle would be a diabetic’s natural weapon. It’s what you used on your mother a year later. Oh, I know the coroner’s report said she’d been drinking and forgot she’d already taken her daily injection—at a time when she was alone in the house and there was no one to help her. Supposedly. But you were there, weren’t you? You gave her that overdose. What did you do then, Jo? Did you wait long enough to see the sweating, the confusion, the coma? Or did you leave her to die alone?”
    â€œGet out of here!” she shouted. “Get out right now!”
    â€œIt was a pretty nice setup,” Strode went on unheeding. “On top of their diabetes, your folks had other problems, didn’t they? Your father had developed emphysema. He smoked too much, he ate too much, he drank too much. The man was a walking coronary waiting to happen. And your mother was in even worse shape. Nephritis, wasn’t it? They were two mighty sick people. So if you were caught playing your needle games, you could always claim they were mercy killings and hope to get a jury that went for that sort of thing.”
    Her mouth was working but no sound was coming out. Strode took her speechlessness as a favorable sign.
    He bore down even harder. “You became a wealthy woman when your father died, Jo. Half his money went to you and the other half to your mother. But you wanted it all, didn’t you? Money you never earned. That must have been quite a year for you, right after you killed your father—waiting to find out if you’d got away with it and cranking yourself up to do it again. Or did you enjoy doing it?”
    â€œYou’re sick, Strode,” she hissed. “You’re sick and twisted and perverted. How dare you accuse me of