Lark Read Online Free Page B

that it happened in the house.”
    The officers nodded.
    It was ten at night by the time they were finished at the crime scene. A guard was left at the site. Tomorrow Lark would prepare an “Affidavit and Application Search-and-Seizure Warrant” for the pedestal and cross. He would also try to get a judge to sign a similar warrant for a search of the house. Lark snorted. In the old days they would have just gone in and tossed the whole damn place.
    After hours of searching the area, all they had was one dead girl, three threads, and a possible bloodstain on the base of a cheap pedestal. It would take him another half-hour to go to headquarters and place the threads with the property clerk to ensure that the chain of evidence was sanctified.
    It was ten-forty when Lark stopped the pickup in front of his house trailer, which was parked behind the Milligan Machine Company. It was choretime. He left the truck and walked slowly around the machine shop and its several outbuildings. Occasionally he tried a door to make sure it was securely locked. It was part of his arrangement with Milligan. He checked the buildings at night, and in return was allowed to park his trailer and hook into the shop’s plumbing and electrical systems. Both parties benefited and it saved Lark money. Lark didn’t like to spend money. The final chore was to empty the melted ice from the beer freezer and then he could go inside the trailer.
    The trailer’s interior was spotless and sparsely furnished in a militarylike simplicity. He had flipped open the small refrigerator to reach for a can of beer when he saw the calendar over the sink.
    â€œGoddamn!” he said aloud. It was Monday. The rule was inviolate: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday were exercise nights. Lark hated exercise. He had decided many years earlier that you were born with a heart that was genetically engineered for a certain number of beats. You could accelerate your allotted time by excessive exercise such as long jogs, or you could also diminish your survival by reverting completely to sloth. He had chosen a midpoint, a minimum amount of exercise to keep the body in trim, expunge the beer poison, and maintain muscle tone in the absolute shortest possible time. After several years of experimentation he had decided that twenty-two minutes of violent exercise, repeated three times a week, would maintain his body.
    He groaned. It had to be done or the system broke down. He rolled out the heavy dumbbells from under the counter, stripped off his pants and shirt, and began.
    Sets of deep knee bends, pull-ups, sit-ups, and curls were the fulcrum of his program, and he forced himself to breathe deeply with each exercise.
    He watched the wall clock as its hands moved with agonizing slowness. When twenty-two minutes to the second had elapsed, he stopped, kicked the dumbbells under the counter, stripped off his shorts, and stepped into the shower. He was exhausted.
    The shower helped, and he was toweling off when he heard a car pull into the drive next to the pickup. He pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms and went to the door.
    â€œOh, it’s you,” he said without enthusiasm as she left her Olds and came into the shaft of light falling from the doorway.
    She kissed his lips and slowly ran her hands over his bare chest before pushing past him into the trailer. “I drove by earlier and you weren’t here. I think I’m going to give you a telephone for your birthday.”
    â€œThey cost too damn much. Want a beer?”
    â€œA little white wine.”
    â€œI think I have some left from last time.” He searched in the refrigerator.
    â€œWhat if they want you at headquarters?”
    â€œThey send a car by.” He found the wine and poured half a jelly glass full and flipped a beer from the freezer.
    She took the wine and settled back on the divan. “You don’t seem overjoyed to see me.”
    â€œIt hasn’t been one of my better