Murder on Lexington Avenue Read Online Free

too.”
    Frank thought Sullivan looked relieved. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll clear everybody out of the building and lock up. I found Wooten’s keys in his pocket.”
    “I’ll tell this Young fellow you have them,” Frank said by way of warning. If anything went missing from the building, Sullivan would get the blame. “Make sure they get back here to him on Monday morning.”
    “I will,” Sullivan promised.
    Frank took his leave, wondering grimly if he might have ended up a drunken sot like Sullivan after his wife died if he hadn’t had Brian to take care of. At the time, grief-stricken over his loss, he’d certainly been tempted to abandon the boy, who’d been born with a crippled foot. He hadn’t even known then that Brian was deaf. If he had, would that have made a difference? Would that have made the burden of caring for his son too much to bear? Frank was glad he didn’t know the answer to that question. He headed uptown to the address he had for the Wooten family.
     
     
    T HE WOOTENS LIVED IN A COMFORTABLY LARGE HOUSE on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The maid looked frightened when she saw who was at the door. Although Frank wore the same kind of dark suit every other businessman in the city wore and the same kind of derby hat that every other man wore, something about him always told people he was the police. He’d often thought it was his Irish face. For decades, the police force had been the only source of steady employment for the Irish. But deep down he knew it was probably the way years on the police force had hardened that Irish face.
    Frank gave the maid his card. “I need to see Mrs. Wooten. It’s about her husband.”
    Now the girl looked terrified. Her blue eyes widened, and she darted away, disappearing into the house and leaving the front door hanging open. She hadn’t invited Frank inside, but he took the liberty of admitting himself, if only to close the front door and keep out the flies. He could have made himself at home, but he waited politely until the girl came scurrying back down the stairs and invited him to meet her mistress in the sitting room.
    Mrs. Wooten was what Frank’s mother would have called a fine- looking woman. Not beautiful or even pretty, but everything about her spoke of quality, from her carefully styled hair to the toes of her kid leather shoes. Her impressively buxom figure was encased in a dark blue gown. She was standing when he entered the room, barely waiting for the maid to announce him.
    “That’s all, Annie,” Mrs. Wooten said. Her voice was low and oddly sensual. Frank felt the effect of it in the pit of his stomach. As the door clicked shut behind the girl, Mrs. Wooten visibly gathered herself, straightening ever so slightly, as if preparing to receive a blow. “What has happened to my husband?”
    “You should sit down, Mrs. Wooten,” Frank said.
    “He’s dead then,” she replied flatly. To Frank’s surprise, the stiffness relaxed, almost as if . . . Frank could hardly credit it, but she seemed almost relieved . “I should have known when he didn’t come home. He said he’d be here by four.” She sighed, but she didn’t seem the least bit grief-stricken.
    “Should I call your maid?”
    “That idiot girl? Certainly not.” Her hands were clasped at her waist, and Frank noticed the knuckles were white. At least she wasn’t quite as unmoved as she appeared. “Tell me what happened. An accident, I suppose.”
    “Mrs. Wooten, you should sit down,” Frank tried again.
    Her eyes might have been attractive at another time. They were a startling shade of blue, but at the moment they were glacial. “Just tell me and get it over with.”
    “He was murdered,” Frank said.
    At least she had the grace to look surprised. If he could call the brief widening of her eyes true surprise. “Murdered?” she echoed as if the word left a bad taste in her mouth.
    “Yes, murdered. Someone killed him.”
    Frank watched her