If Walls Could Talk Read Online Free

brother, or uncle. I had never thought to ask.
    A lifetime passed before I finally heard the shrill, escalating whine of emergency vehicles heralding the arrival of the paramedics.
     
    “It was a do-it-yourself demo party . ” I yelled to be heard over the sound of the retreating siren.
    Sunlight glinted off the chrome of the ambulance as it disappeared down the street. Matt was accompanying Kenneth and the paramedics to the California Pacific Medical Center; I stayed behind to close the place up.
    “A what ?” asked the cop. He was a middle-aged, jowly man whose paunch strained at the buttons of his SFPD uniform. His watery blue eyes kept wandering from the notepad in his hands to my overexposed chest. It had become a warm, sunny February day, so my sleeveless dress was equal to the weather, but perhaps not to the company.
    After the paramedics swooped in and took over with Kenneth, I had washed up in the powder room sink as best I could, scrubbing my hands and arms raw, trying to pull myself together. I smoothed my dark curly hair and did my best to ignore the wan, hollow look in my eyes. Amazingly my dress had emerged from the ordeal dusty but unbloodied, but my father’s jacket wasn’t so lucky—I would have to take it in for professional cleaning before he discovered it was gone. At the moment it hung, grimy and stained with blood, over my arm. Without the jacket on, I really did look like the last gal left after a wild party.
    “The idea is to do part of the demolition and beginning remodel with the help of a lot of friends.” I straightened my spine, tried to rally my spirits, and continued. “Unfortunately, there was alcohol involved. But that was last night—those injuries must have been recent. Kenneth couldn’t have survived—”
    “You’re saying it was a construction accident,” the officer said with finality, as though he were filling out a form with only a certain number of choices.
    “A single nail might have been an accident,” I protested. “Maybe two. But he’s been shot repeatedly.”
    “According to the victim himself, it was an accident. First with the . . . uh . . . table saw and then with the nail gun.”
    “Kenneth’s able to talk?” I asked.
    “Like I said, he told me it was an accident.”
    “But that doesn’t make any sense—”
    “Listen, sweetheart, you’d be surprised what these power tools can do, all right? I once saw a guy got shot in the head with a nail gun and he was standing clear across the room. And this other time . . . Well, look, I don’t want to upset you, okay? But it’s like they say—accidents are stranger than fiction.”
    “I’m in the construction business myself, sweetheart . And I’m telling you: This doesn’t seem like an accident.” I reached into my jacket pocket for my business card and realized I still had the bullets. “Oh, I found these in the master bedroom. Sorry I touched them. I guess they could be evidence.”
    He held out his hand, and I relinquished the cartridges. A flicker of interest sparked in those bland eyes.
    “Was the victim shot? I mean, with a gun?” the cop asked me, as though I would know.
    “As far as I could see, only with the nail gun, but it was pretty hard to tell. I’m sure the hospital will discover more.”
    I handed him my business card:
    Mel Turner, General Contractor
Turner Construction
Remodeling—Renovation—Repair
Historic Home Specialists
    The officer looked down at it, then back up at me with a doubtful don’t-that-beat-all look on his broad face.
    “This your job site, then?” he asked.
    “No, I wasn’t involved in the project. I just dropped by to check up on Matt. As a friend.”
    “Okay, look, what we need here is for you to tell me what you saw. Period. You arrived a little before noon and found the first gentleman downstairs, asleep, and the second individual upstairs missing a hand and shot with nails. Okay? Is that about it?”
    I nodded.
    A large, rattling truck pulled up