Roux the Day Read Online Free Page B

patch of red on his chest was patently the cause of death. He had been shot, and very recently.
    How recently? I wondered. Recently enough that whoever had shot him was still here? It was at that inappropriate moment that I heard a slithering sound …
    The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I froze, waiting for the sound again. If I could figure out where it had come from, I could move hastily in the opposite direction. All was still, though into the silence crept the faintest buzz of street traffic.
    A door slammed. Trouble was, I couldn’t tell where. It took me a moment to realize that if it had been the front door, I would have heard that tinkling bell. So there must be another door—well, obviously, there had to be a back entrance for unloading all these books.
    I went back into the third room and there it was—it opened to a turn of the knob. An alley went all the way to the next street. Trash cans lined up and there were piles of cardboard crates and boxes. But no person or persons.
    Going back into the room with the dead man wasn’t particularly pleasant but the body acted like a magnet. I thought about wiping the doorknobs and getting out of there, like any non—law-abiding citizen would. Had I picked up any books? I wondered. But leaving fingerprints would not be incriminating unless I did, indeed, duck out of there.
    Being non—law-abiding is something I cannot readily contemplate. Besides, a check of cab drivers would turn up the one who had driven me here and, though he had not paid much attention to me (or the traffic, for that matter), he would probably be able to identify me. I reached for the phone, stopped.
    A box of tissues stood on the edge of the desk. I took one and used it to lift the phone. At least, I wouldn’t obliterate any fingerprints that might be on it.
    The food business is a multibillion-dollar industry and even the sedentary aspects of it that involve me often have contact with the seamier side. Crooks and criminals can be found in there just as in any business—a small percentage of those involved can always see a way to make more money by doing something illegal.
    Unwittingly, I have been mixed up in a few of these and some have even involved a corpse or two. It was very rare that I had been in the position of calling the police upon finding one of them, though. The operator was polite and helpful and when I was promptly connected with the police department, they were the same.
    I confess I was disappointed. It was the first time I had ever had the opportunity to say, “I want to report a murder,” and the sergeant who introduced herself was about as excited as if I had told her that my pet Pekingese was missing. She asked me to stay where I was until the police arrived, adding that they would be there in a few minutes. She was as cool as a dentist’s assistant making an appointment.
    It was under five minutes, in fact. Two patrolmen in uniform came, looked at the corpse, checked my identity and made a phone, call. They moved around, looking at doors and windows, though one of them was in the room with me at all times. About ten minutes later, two plainclothes detectives came in.
    “LieutenantDelanceyHomicide,” said the foremost of the two. The way he said it, it came out like one long word. He was short, light build, with a face that looked worn and tired. He had light-blue eyes that improved his appearance a bit and untidy dark hair that didn’t. He wore a gray suit that was far from new and a dark-blue tie that he probably got as a Christmas present. His ears were prominent and he moved his hands in an expressive way that was almost Italian. “Stickaround, I wannatalktoyer,” he said, and I knew he was not from Louisiana.
    He motioned to the two uniformed men and they all huddled together. It did not take long for observations to be passed along and the uniformed men left. “Sergeant Zukowski,” the lieutenant said, jerking a thumb in that direction. I gave the