Murder Takes a Break Read Online Free Page B

it.   His conclusion, based on his "experience and instinct" was that Randall Kirbo had dropped out of sight for reasons of his own and that he hadn't come to any harm.  
    He might even have been right, but Randall's parents didn't think so, and it was possible that their experience and instinct were just as pertinent as Lattner's.
    I closed the file and looked at the photo of Randall that his mother had given me before I left the Galvez.   It had been taken for his high school yearbook when he was a senior, and he looked uncomfortable in his jacket and tie, as if the collar of his white dress shirt was a little too tight.   It probably was.   He was the kind who'd find it difficult to get a collar big enough to fit.   He had wide eyes and his father's curly hair, but his face wasn't puffy like Tack's.   It was lean and angular but softened by a crooked grin that revealed a chipped front tooth.   The All-American Boy.
    I wondered where he was now, but I wasn't sure I wanted to be the one to find out.   I'd told Mrs. Kirbo that I'd try to help, however, so I would.
    As it happened, there was a place I could start.   I had run into Bob Lattner a couple of times during my short stint of working in a local bail bondsman's office.   Lattner probably wouldn't tell me anything, but I thought I might be able to convince him to meet me and talk things over.
    Tack Kirbo had also provided me with Chad Peavy's Houston address, and it wouldn't be too much trouble to drive up and have a talk with him.   After talking to both him and Lattner, I could most likely use my experience and instinct to come to the same conclusion Lattner had reached.   Then I could call the whole thing off.
    Except that I wouldn't do that, of course.   It wasn't that I felt that I owed anyone anything; it's just that for some reason I can't bring myself to do a job halfway, as Lattner had done.   Sometimes I think I'd be better off if I could.
    Nameless scratched on the screen door, and I went to let him in.   It was dark outside, and I looked at my black plastic digital watch.   6:32.   I'd been reading longer than I'd thought.   The Kingston Trio had been silent for a long time now.
    I opened the door, and Nameless ran directly to his food dish.   I'm pretty sure that the only reason he tolerates my company is that I'm a reliable source of Tender Vittles, which is fine with me.   I don't mind buying friendship when it's cheap.   I opened a packet of Seafood Supper and dumped it in the bowl.   Nameless began to eat, purring at the same time.   I don't know how he did it, but I thought it was a neat trick.
    I found a can of Hormel vegetarian chili to fix for myself.   It was my kind of food — from the can to the microwave to the table in about five minutes. It tasted OK, too, but I didn't purr while I ate it.
    By the time I finished and washed my bowl, it was too late to talk to Bob Lattner, so I took the Kingston Trio off the CD player and put on Elvis's If Every Day Were Like Christmas , which is the only other holiday album I own.   Then I flopped down in the recliner and spent the rest of the evening reading more O'Hara.  
    After a while Nameless came in and went to sleep on the throw rug under the coffee table.   The charms of Elvis singing about a blue Christmas were lost on him.   Around eleven o'clock I decided that Nameless had the right idea, so I went to bed.
    I don't know whether Nameless dreamed or not, sleeping there on the rug, but I dreamed of running all night long, although I'm pretty sure I never got anywhere.   When I woke up the next morning, I was already tired, and the day hadn't even started yet.
    Tired or not, I went out for an early morning jog.   The sky was covered with low clouds, and the fields that I ran past were thick with fog.   The sun would burn it off soon enough, but just then it was almost as if I were running through a fine