Nantucket Sawbuck Read Online Free Page B

studied it at the Los Angeles Police Academy; Charlie had written a paper on it at John Jay College. Events leave traces, things rub off on each other, nothing moves without leaving a trail. So I always looked and then I looked again; and again. Sometimes I found nothing, or a weird little scrap of information that didn’t fit, like the extra screw left over after assembling my son’s Christmas bicycle. Other times I got lucky.
    Like tonight.
    I pulled a tweezers and a plastic evidence bag out of my coat jacket pocket, kneeled down and plucked the cigarette butt from where it was lying on the carpet, half-obscured by the dust ruffle of the king-sized bed. I stood, and extended it to Charlie. You could see the thin gold ring just above the filter.
    â€œLook familiar?”
    Charlie squinted at the cigarette. “I don’t smoke, Chief. You know that.”
    â€œBut you think. That’s what I pay you for.”
    The edge in my voice seemed to wake him up a little.
    â€œLattimers’,” he said. “It’s like the cigarette we found at the Lattimers’.”
    â€œExactly. Camel Lights. If the DNA matches, we’re closing in on them.”
    â€œThanks, Chief.”
    â€œThanks?”
    â€œFor not riding me about that comment I made at the Lattimers’ house. ‘What are we supposed to do with that piece of information?’ or something. Like it was nothing.”
    â€œâ€”I said ‘Remember it.’ And you did.”
    I looked around the room, noted the packed suitcases, three Louis Vuitton bags lined up in the corner of the room
    Charlie followed my gaze. “Looks like this guy was getting ready for a trip,” he said. I nodded, walked to the closet and opened it. We both stared inside. It was empty.
    â€œWhat the hell—?”
    I smiled. “A little trip? I’d say he was making his getaway, Detective.”
    I returned to the bed. “That’s a screwdriver in his chest. It looks like one of those four-way tools they sell at the Marine Home Center front counter. Two sizes of flat head and Phillips on either end of a shaft that fits into the handle.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo…for one thing this was a big strong guy because he only had one shot. It’s in there deep and the screwdriver bit would have pulled loose coming out of the chest cavity. For another thing…Lomax owed a lot of people money, Charlie. Hundreds of people worked on this house. I’ve heard them talking: everyone’s waiting for their last payment. And he’s clearing out? Someone must have known he was splitting. Someone in the trades.” I thought about Mike Henderson, eavesdropping after the party. If he had told even one person what he’d heard, the news would have spread across the island like a case of strep throat through an elementary school. “Problem is, it could have been anyone. Everybody has a screwdriver in their toolbox. And that makes everybody a suspect. We need a list—everyone who worked on this house. Masons, plumbers, electricians, drywall hangers, plasterers, floor finishers, painters, the people who install the granite countertops and the custom cabinetry, landscapers, the people from Intercity alarm, the people who put in the sound system, the decorators, the wallpaper hangers…and am I forgetting anyone?”
    â€œThe house cleaners?”
    We stared at each other for a second.
    â€œSorry, Chief.”
    â€œNo, you’re right, Charlie. Thanks.”
    It was true. I was going to have to investigate Fiona Donovan. I was going to have to grill her about her whereabouts and her alibi and her motives. Either that or let the state police do it. But I wasn’t alone. This crime and the waves of suspicion and animosity it generated were going to touch everyone on the island: all the friends and families of all the suspects and the victims and the police. The contamination would linger after everyone