Hot Start Read Online Free
Author: David Freed
fan and let it blow on my face.
“So who shot the Hollisters?”
“Dino Birch,” Larry said.
“Who’s Dino Birch?”
“That nutty animal rights guy. You have no clue what’s going on around town, do you, Logan?” He tossed the morning’s newspaper on my desk, grabbed another fistful of Oreos, and headed for the door, grimacing on bad knees. “Oh, by the way, you’re late on this month’s rent.”
“Check’s in the mail, Larry.”
“Like I haven’t heard that before.”
I was down to five cookies. Their creamy filling was melting in the heat. I unscrewed each one, scraping the frosting with my front teeth, and read the front page.
Quoting unnamed sources, the Sun reported that Birch’s arrest was imminent. He’d been the Rancho Bonita Police Department’s prime, if only, suspect all along. According to the paper, Birch had served in the army as a sniper and a scout-dog handler, first in Afghanistan and later in the Horn of Africa, before being honorably discharged and picking up a bachelor’s degree in animal behavior from the University of California at Davis. Soon afterward, he opened a nonprofit in Rancho Bonita called “HEAT”—Helping Endangered Animals Thrive. His one-man organization, supported by a meager stream of donations from like-minded individuals across the country, had established a reputation for its particularly strident, in-your-face defense of endangered species. In Tokyo, Birch had been detained for a few weeks after hurling cream pies at Japanese officials attending an international whaling summit. In Russia, he’d threatened the owners of a traveling circus accused of mistreating their dancing bears. Closer to home, Birch’s name had surfaced in the 2015 disappearance of a Bay Area pharmaceuticals researcher who’d been conducting lab experiments of some sort on monkeys when he went missing. The researcher’s body was never found. San Jose police had briefly questioned Birch, the paper said, before concluding that he was not involved in the disappearance.
The article detailed Roy Hollister’s rise from a poor kid growing up in the cotton fields of California’s San Joaquin Valley to a multimillionaire living in a mansion with an unobstructed ocean view, all thanks to his fascination with firearms. A photo of Hollister that accompanied the story, taken from his website, showed a ruddy, heavyset man garbed in a safari jacket and cowboy hat, posing proudly beside the lion he’d just shot with a scoped hunting rifle.
Toni Hollister’s photo revealed a petite, blue-eyed blonde with a winning smile, wearing a flowing, cherry red dress with ruffles, like a flamenco dancer’s. Her hair was pinned up and she was clutching a red lace fan in her right hand. The caption said the photo had been taken the year before during Old Conquistador Days, Rancho Bonita’s annual tribute to its colonial Spanish heritage. Toni was described in the article as universally liked, a charming and outgoing woman happy to write a five- or six-figure check for even the most obscure local charity. Eighteen years his junior, she’d met the twice-divorced Roy in 2007 while scraping plaque from his teeth and married him three weeks later. They honeymooned in Zimbabwe where, at his instruction, she shot a kudu. It was the first and last time she ever fired a gun, according to friends quoted in the story. Hunting sickened her, but she genuinely loved Roy and put aside whatever issues she had with the way he made his money. “His good qualities,” she reportedly told acquaintances, “outweighed his bad.”
Had Dino Birch shot the Hollisters in defense of defenseless animals? That certainly seemed plausible, but frankly, I was more concerned at that moment with eating my remaining Oreos before they melted.
The day, as it turned out, would only get hotter.
TWO
W hen you’re trapped in a heat wave, and when your truck, your residence, and place of work all lack air conditioning, you’ll find any
“So who shot the Hollisters?”
“Dino Birch,” Larry said.
“Who’s Dino Birch?”
“That nutty animal rights guy. You have no clue what’s going on around town, do you, Logan?” He tossed the morning’s newspaper on my desk, grabbed another fistful of Oreos, and headed for the door, grimacing on bad knees. “Oh, by the way, you’re late on this month’s rent.”
“Check’s in the mail, Larry.”
“Like I haven’t heard that before.”
I was down to five cookies. Their creamy filling was melting in the heat. I unscrewed each one, scraping the frosting with my front teeth, and read the front page.
Quoting unnamed sources, the Sun reported that Birch’s arrest was imminent. He’d been the Rancho Bonita Police Department’s prime, if only, suspect all along. According to the paper, Birch had served in the army as a sniper and a scout-dog handler, first in Afghanistan and later in the Horn of Africa, before being honorably discharged and picking up a bachelor’s degree in animal behavior from the University of California at Davis. Soon afterward, he opened a nonprofit in Rancho Bonita called “HEAT”—Helping Endangered Animals Thrive. His one-man organization, supported by a meager stream of donations from like-minded individuals across the country, had established a reputation for its particularly strident, in-your-face defense of endangered species. In Tokyo, Birch had been detained for a few weeks after hurling cream pies at Japanese officials attending an international whaling summit. In Russia, he’d threatened the owners of a traveling circus accused of mistreating their dancing bears. Closer to home, Birch’s name had surfaced in the 2015 disappearance of a Bay Area pharmaceuticals researcher who’d been conducting lab experiments of some sort on monkeys when he went missing. The researcher’s body was never found. San Jose police had briefly questioned Birch, the paper said, before concluding that he was not involved in the disappearance.
The article detailed Roy Hollister’s rise from a poor kid growing up in the cotton fields of California’s San Joaquin Valley to a multimillionaire living in a mansion with an unobstructed ocean view, all thanks to his fascination with firearms. A photo of Hollister that accompanied the story, taken from his website, showed a ruddy, heavyset man garbed in a safari jacket and cowboy hat, posing proudly beside the lion he’d just shot with a scoped hunting rifle.
Toni Hollister’s photo revealed a petite, blue-eyed blonde with a winning smile, wearing a flowing, cherry red dress with ruffles, like a flamenco dancer’s. Her hair was pinned up and she was clutching a red lace fan in her right hand. The caption said the photo had been taken the year before during Old Conquistador Days, Rancho Bonita’s annual tribute to its colonial Spanish heritage. Toni was described in the article as universally liked, a charming and outgoing woman happy to write a five- or six-figure check for even the most obscure local charity. Eighteen years his junior, she’d met the twice-divorced Roy in 2007 while scraping plaque from his teeth and married him three weeks later. They honeymooned in Zimbabwe where, at his instruction, she shot a kudu. It was the first and last time she ever fired a gun, according to friends quoted in the story. Hunting sickened her, but she genuinely loved Roy and put aside whatever issues she had with the way he made his money. “His good qualities,” she reportedly told acquaintances, “outweighed his bad.”
Had Dino Birch shot the Hollisters in defense of defenseless animals? That certainly seemed plausible, but frankly, I was more concerned at that moment with eating my remaining Oreos before they melted.
The day, as it turned out, would only get hotter.
TWO
W hen you’re trapped in a heat wave, and when your truck, your residence, and place of work all lack air conditioning, you’ll find any
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