Murder on Olympus Read Online Free

hundred thousand a pop, and soared into the millions. Every lawn was immaculately manicured, with flowerbeds, bird fountains, and luxury cars parked in every garage. The streets looked freshly paved, and no trash littered the sidewalks or gutters. It was the ideal place to settle down and raise a family.
    My ’67 Thunderbird, with its flaking cream paint, cracked windshield, and dented bumper, turned more than a few heads. Dads watering their lawns, moms planting flowers, and kids riding their bikes all stopped to look at me. The way they stared, I might as well have been riding a flying saucer, shouting “take me to your leader.”
    The Stone residence—a three-story mansion behind an ornate iron gate—sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. A wall of vines, blooming with purple flowers, covered half the house. My client waited for me just outside the front door.
    Looking at her made me wish I had dressed a bit nicer, though I wore my best suit. It was a gray number with a maroon button-up. I bought the outfit from a consignment shop about three years ago. Quality cost money, but spending six hundred credits for a jacket at a department store, and another four hundred for a pair of slacks, never made much sense to me. On the other hand, some people thought that buying a TV for two thousand credits didn’t make a whole lot of sense either. But hey, we all have our priorities.
    Bellanca Stone’s petite hourglass figure reminded me of the kind on cartoons and in comic books. Black hair fell in thick curls down either side of her face, framing shadowed brown eyes, a slightly large but attractive nose, and full lips. Her bronze-colored skin glowed in the sunlight. To say that she was beautiful seemed an insulting understatement.
    “Mr. Jones?” Bellanca said with a heavy Spanish accent.
    “That’s me. You must be Mrs. Stone.”
    Her skin was incredibly soft when we shook hands. I had to tell myself that she was a married woman. If I hadn’t, I’m sure the massive diamond on her finger would have reminded me.
    “Please, come in.” She moved aside to let me pass. Inside the house, black and white covered almost every surface. The walls were white, the floors checkered. A black railing ran along the side of the staircase. White roses filled black vases atop white pedestals. The whole place had a disorienting effect.
    Bellanca showed me to the living room. The ceiling soared high above my head. Sunlight poured through a vast skylight, reflecting off the white walls. The rug and drapes were black, but the leather sectional couch and loveseat were red. Fire engine red. Finally , I thought, some color . I sat on the sectional. A 72-inch flat-screen TV hung above the fireplace, playing the news. Bellanca grabbed the remote off the coffee table and muted the sound.
    “Thanks for coming,” she said.
    “Not a problem.”
    “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Soda?”
    I shrugged. “Soda’s good.”
    As Bellanca walked into the kitchen, I resisted the urge to glance at her ass. While she was gone, I got up and took a stroll around the living room. A large display case occupied the corner, filled with snow globes and crystalline figures. Hanging on the wall behind the couch was a large cubist painting, with black, white, and gray shapes arranged to look like what I could only assume to be a man sitting on a toilet. Rich people baffled me.
    I sat back down. Bellanca returned from the kitchen carrying a glass of ice filled with a clear, carbonated beverage.
    “Here you are.” She handed me the soda. “Sprite.”
    “Thanks.” I leaned back into the sofa cushions. “So, Mrs. Stone, what can I do for you?”
    Bellanca sat across from me on the loveseat and crossed her legs. The bottom of her short white dress rode up, revealing a smooth expanse of thigh. I looked away to keep from staring.
    “I need you to follow someone,” she said.
    I raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
    “My husband, Collin. I think he’s cheating on