Killing Zone Read Online Free Page B

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    “Got any ideas about motive?” asked Stubbs.
    “No. But I have been wondering why, if he was killed last night, the family didn’t report him missing.”
    “Did you check with Missing Persons?”
    “I did. No report at all on an adult, black male.” Just the usual teenaged kids who most likely were runaways, and two Caucasian females, neither of whom had been missing for seventy-two hours yet, so no formal report could be taken.
    “You think his family might have something to do with it?”
    The odds used to be that way: “Kith and kin killed one again.” But the last year or two had seen a growing number of stranger-to-stranger homicides, usually in the course of a robbery or a fight. Sometimes impulse, or thrill, murders. Now it was only about fifty-fifty that a victim knew his slayer, and that made things a hell of a lot tougher for the police. “We’ll find out.”
    “Yeah,” said Stubbs. “But like the chief said, we’ll find out very carefully, won’t we, partner?”
    “Sure.” The way Stubbs said it hinted of stories the man had heard about Wager. But it wasn’t something Wager was going to pursue, because he didn’t give a damn what people told Stubbs or what the man feared.
    “Here’s Belaire up ahead.”
    Wager slowed for the turn, Stubbs’s word partner still in his ears. Technically, the new man was right; he and Wager were partners because Wager was on the day shift this month and policy said to introduce new detectives to the day routine before assigning them to the less-supervised night duty. But for years Wager’s partner had been Max—because, he was once told by an angry Captain Doyle, nobody else wanted to work with him. Which hadn’t hurt Wager’s feelings at all; he didn’t like working with anyone else, and that sometimes included Max. Still, it felt different to have Stubbs ride beside him instead of the big man. With Max, the seat would be shoved against its backstops so Wager had to stretch to drive. And still Max would look cramped as he slouched in the rider’s seat. Stubbs, leaning forward slightly to watch the houses pass, reminded Wager of his grandmother when she would get out for the occasional Sunday ride: too tense to sit back and enjoy, yet eager to show her children she was having a good time.
    “I can’t see one damned house number. There ought to be a law to have numbers on the curbs.”
    But it wasn’t the numbers that told them which of the stately houses belonged to Councilman Green; it was the cluster of vehicles along the sidewalks halfway down the next block. The large, expensive homes had been built in the twenties and thirties, when the owners were trying to rival the Country Club district across town by creating a sprawling neighborhood of English-style estate homes. Gradually, as the black community settled in the northeast corner of the city and spread south, the rich whites began moving out and, for a while, the big houses hovered on the edge of collapsing into apartments and transient housing like so much of the Capitol Hill area. Then well-to-do blacks, who knew a good real estate value, began moving in and the homes were painted, long screen porches repaired, tree-filled yards cleaned and trimmed. Now, here and there, an occasional white family who could afford the cost was buying back into the area at three or four times the earlier, desperate prices.
    “There’s the chief and the mayor,” said Stubbs. “They’re just leaving.”
    Wager saw a stir among the group of reporters and photographers poised at the end of the sidewalk. A television camera hoisted to the shoulder of a girl in jeans and the hooded balls of microphones shoved forward. Wager pulled to the curb. “Let’s wait a few minutes.”
    The mayor’s hand lifted palm out toward the reporters—no comment—and he and the much taller Chief Sullivan hurried past to the unmarked car that quickly pulled away, followed by a blue-and-white running cold. A television