Kind of Blue Read Online Free Page B

wooden box in Duffy’s trunk, stuffed them in my pocket, and walked to Relovich’s front porch, which faced the harbor. Lingering for a moment, I looked out at the inky black water laced with streaks of silver from the three-quarter moon. Lights atop the graceful span of the Vincent Thomas Bridge, which connected San Pedro to Terminal Island, twinkled in the distance. An offshore wind, brisker here than in the central city, blew off the water, carrying the smell of seaweed, brine, and a hint of diesel fuel.
    Duffy opened the front door and flipped on the lights. I followed him inside. The house had an air of dereliction. In the living room, newspapers, unopened mail, fast-food wrappers, and empty Dr. Pepper cans were strewn on the nicked hardwood floor. Fingerprint powder streaked the wooden arms of the sofa, the chipped coffee table in front, two chairs beside a picture window, and every other smooth surface. I took a deep breath and nodded. After a year of disorientation, I finally felt at home again. Yes, this is what I’ve missed. Homicide.
    I left Duffy in the living room and walked through an archway to the kitchen, where dishes were piled up in the sink. More fingerprint dust stippled the white cabinets and Formica counter. The faint smell of cooked meat and stale cigarette smoke lingered in the house. I walked down a narrow hallway from the kitchen to Relovich’s bedroom. Thedouble bed was unmade, the sheets a dingy white. An old gray blanket covered the window.
    Walking across the hallway to the other bedroom, I was surprised because it was neat and the narrow bed—covered with a
Little Mermaid
bedspread—was made. Taped to the wall above the bed, was a child’s finger painting of a rainbow. A small bookcase on the opposite wall was lined with children’s books, and the bottom shelf was stacked with kids’ videos. I figured he was divorced and had weekend custody of his daughter.
    I walked over to a wooden desk next to the bookcase. The top drawer was lined with coloring books and a Crayon box. The bottom drawer was stuffed with cancelled checks, phone bills for the past month, a calculator, and a roll of stamps. I grabbed the envelopes containing the cancelled checks and phone bills and returned to the living room. I found Duffy staring out the window at the harbor lights. He turned around when he heard me and said, “Our killer entered from the—”
    I cut him off with a karate chop in the air.
    “Okay, okay,” Duffy said. “I’ll leave you alone.”
    A few brick-colored smudges glimmering on the hardwood floor in front of the sofa caught my eye. I crouched and studied them. Even now, after so many murders, I am still surprised at the color of dried blood. I still expect it to be bright red; maybe it was all those detective shows I had watched as a kid. As it dries, blood loses much of its vividness and looks more brown than crimson, but it keeps its arresting sheen. Looking at this patch from different angles, I watched it flicker in the dim light.
    I flipped on my Maglite and, rising, slowly turned, illuminating the walls. Behind the sofa, about waist high, was what looked like a miniature pointillist portrait: blood spatter.
    I walked over to a chair a few feet from the sofa. Sitting down on the ripped upholstery, I extended my arm toward the sofa, lifted my right hand—thumb up, index finger extended—and said softly, “Bang.”
    “This was no B and E, no junkie hot prowl,” I said to Duffy. “Relovich knew his killer.”
    Duffy raised an eyebrow. “The Harbor Division detectives say otherwise.”
    “Look at the blood splatter pattern,” I said impatiently. “Look at thedirectional tail. Look at the trajectory. It was a straight shot to the sofa. Asshole is sitting on a chair, across from Relovich, who’s lounging on the sofa. So they’re obviously comfortable with each other. They’re probably chatting. And then, before Relovich can move, asshole pulls out his piece and drills him in