Past Imperfect (Sigrid Harald) Read Online Free

erupted in gunfire? Hy Davidowitz had certainly never shown any sense of personal shame about the rising crime rate in Brighton Beach’s Little Odessa. If his colleagues could distance themselves from the dregs of their race, why couldn’t he?
    Jarvis Vaughn took another deep breath. It was part of a relaxing technique that his sister had read about in one of those psychology books she was always lugging home from the library where she worked. Sometimes it helped.
    Not today though. And not now.
    He pulled a packet from the pocket of his overcoat and with gloved fingers clumsily freed an antacid mint. As he put it in his mouth, the bum standing beside him at the bridge railing stretched out a dirty hand. “Ain’t had nothing to eat all day, bro.”
    Leviticus Jones was a long way from the land that had spawned him, but his slurred voice still carried the soft accents of his birth. His ragged overcoat was a travesty of Vaughn’s almost dapper brown wool. The filthy garment was brown, too, but pilled and buttonless, cinched at the waist with a length of telephone cord, and miles too big for the emaciated frame it covered.
    Shame and a guilty repugnance churned Vaughn’s stomach. He bit down upon the mint and handed the pack to the wino, who immediately broke it open and let the paper fall to the ground as he crammed the remaining mints into his mouth.
    “Pick it up!” Vaughn snarled.
    “Huh?”
    “You got to put more trash on the earth? Pick up the goddamned paper.”
    The derelict looked at him blankly and Hy Davidowitz stirred uneasily beside his partner. “Hey, lighten up, my man.”
    It was an old joke between them and for a moment, Jarvis Vaughn relaxed.
    The wind caught the paper scraps and carried them off the bridge onto the water as the goggled diver broke through the surface, flipped back her mouthpiece and called, “Nothing here but garbage, Sarge.”
    “Keep looking,” Vaughn called back.
    Davidowitz turned to the bum. “Okay, Jones, tell us again. It was dark, it was quiet, right?”
    Their only witness nodded hesitantly.
    “You were cooped-up under the ramp here when you heard voices and then the shot and then the splash like, maybe a gun being thrown in the water, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “And you’re sure the splash was off to your right?” Davidowitz asked patiently.
    The man’s thin arm waggled inside his ragged right sleeve. “Yeah.”
    “Then why the hell can’t we find it?” snarled Vaughn. He heard the anger in his voice and took another deep and steadying breath. “Show us exactly where you were,” he said.
    Leviticus Jones turned and lurched away and the two detectives followed his shambling form. He circled the handrail at the foot of the ramp, walked back to the seawall, and crawled through a narrow opening between the concrete bridge supports into a surprisingly capacious recess beneath the ramp.
    Vaughn stooped to peer through the opening into the dark refuge Jones had found for himself. The plywood sheathing kept out the worst of icy winds off the water and a plastic shower curtain patterned with faded pink flamingos had been tacked over the cracks to further cut the wind. A couple of rumpled army blankets lay atop a pile of newspapers that insulated Jones from cold concrete that would otherwise drain away his body heat. There were some canned goods off to one side and three lumpy shopping bags.
    “Sheepshead Hilton,” grinned the derelict through stained and broken teeth. “No extra charge for sea breezes.”
    Vaughn had seen Manhattan efficiencies with less floor space than Leviticus Jones had staked out for himself underneath the sloping ramp. He watched as Jones curled up on the newspapers and drew the ragged blankets over his scrawny shoulders.
    “You sure that’s exactly how you were lying when you heard the splash?”
    Davidowitz heard a muffled affirmative.
    Vaughn straightened up with a look of exasperation on his thin black face. “Tell the diver to look on