Jericho's Razor Read Online Free Page A

have access to that account?”
    â€œPick a number. It’s posted on fan pages. Anybody could have it.”
    â€œYou don’t screen these things?”
    â€œNo.”
    We stared at each other from across the table.
    â€œYour dog is making quite an impression.”
    I smiled. Before being taken to the station, I left Doomsday with a topped-off food bowl and instructions not to maul any of the officers who would be snooping around the apartment. There was no doubt in my mind that the dog would do as he was told. But the people he eyed like lunch would not be so sure.
    â€œI told him to stay. He’ll stay.”
    â€œI’m sure he will. But he made some of the crime scene people uneasy.”
    â€œI would think that the decapitated corpse would make them uneasy. If they can handle that, my dog shouldn’t worry them.”
    Torrez nodded.
    â€œGood point. You don’t seem too shaken up by it.”
    â€œHow do you mean?”
    â€œWell, in all candor, Jericho, that is the sickest fucking shit I have ever seen. I had to bring in five-gallon buckets for the cops who were barfing just from the smell. The unlucky bastards who saw that massacre didn’t make it to the buckets, making the job of preserving the integrity of the crime scene a real nightmare. Hell, my partner almost barfed a few times and she is tough as they come. But you ... nothing. In fact, you were fast asleep when I came in.” Torrez shrugged. “I don’t know. It must be the genes.”
    I didn’t need a lawyer to tell me not to respond to that one. Torrez seemed surprised that I did not swing at such an easy pitch down the middle of the plate. So he threw another one.
    â€œYou look just like him,” he went on. “Your hair is longer, and the five days’ growth hides it a little, but you really are his spitting image.”
    â€œSo I have been told.”
    â€œThat must be why you don’t like mirrors. It must bother you to look so similar to a monster.”
    â€œDo you have an ID on the victim?”
    â€œYou didn’t recognize him?” Torrez asked.
    â€œNo. The missing head made recognition difficult.”
    Torrez sat back. “His name was Sean Booker. He was mostly into drug dealing, but he also dabbled in the sale of illegal firearms and stolen property. An all-around asshole.” He looked at me from across the table. “Still doesn’t ring any bells?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThat’s funny. Because …” Torrez rummaged through a file, ostensibly searching through a stack of documents. He found the page he wanted and placed it on the table. “Two weeks ago, he was questioned by robbery detectives regarding a break-in at a local nightclub, the Blue Note. This took place on the fifteenth of this month, which would have been a Wednesday. I assume you are familiar with the crime I am talking about, since it was your bar.”
    â€œIt’s not my bar.” I told him. “But yes, I am familiar with it.”
    â€œTell me what happened.”
    â€œYou have it right there in front of you.”
    â€œI’d like to hear it from you.”
    I shrugged. “Somebody threw a brick through the window, grabbed whatever he could carry, and ran out.”
    Among the stolen items was a black Gibson Les Paul autographed by Slash. The musician had stopped at the bar after a concert downtown and played a few impromptu sets with the house band, even inviting me to sit in. The instrument he left had been placed over the bar, along with photos of me playing back-to-back with the guy most responsible for me picking up a guitar. Slash was a genuine guy. Upon hearing about the robbery, he immediately sent a replacement. But I was still pissed.
    â€œIt says here that surveillance videos were unable to provide an identification of the perpetrator.”
    â€œThat’s right. The guy wore a sweatshirt with a hood and kept his head down.