Silent Victim Read Online Free

life.
    Charles Chesterfield Morton was a precise man. He liked his rituals at a certain time: black Kenyan coffee from Fairway first thing in the morning, with exactly one teaspoon of sugar and a dollop of cream.
    His phone rang and he grabbed it.
    “Morton here.”
    “Ah, yes, Chuck … how are you?”
    Morton scowled. He recognized the voice at once—it was Deputy Chief Police Commissioner Steven Connelly, a man he despised. A call from him first thing on a Monday morning couldn’t be anything good. And when Connelly called him by his first name, it was an especially bad sign.
    Morton sank down in his chair.
    “Fine, sir,” he said, “and you?”
    “Great, just great.”
    Morton ran a hand through his short blond hair.
Get to the point, for Christ’s sake.
He knew from experience that the more Connelly stalled, the worse the news he could expect.
    “And your lovely wife—how is she?”
    Morton suppressed a groan.
    “She’s very well, sir—thank you for asking.”
    The deputy chief cleared his throat.
    “Have you picked your team yet for this drowning business on Arthur Avenue?”
    “Well, sir, I—”
    “I’m sending someone your way, Chuck, and I want you to take her under your wing, so to speak.”
    “Yes, sir. Who is it?’
    But before he asked the question, he already knew the answer.
    “Elena Krieger. She just finished working undercover on the Strickley Affair, so I’m assigning her to you. She’s a specialist in linguistic forensics—one of the best in the department. You need someone who can decipher those fake suicide notes, right?”
    Chuck had never met Elena Krieger, but had heard enough to convince him they weren’t going to get along.
    But all he said was, “Yes, sir.”
    There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if the deputy chief was waiting for him to raise an objection.
    “Okay, then,” Connelly said finally, sounding surprised that Morton wasn’t arguing with him. Chuck knew from experience that it wouldn’t do any good. Connelly cleared his throat again. “Who’s the primary on this one?”
    “Detective Leonard Butts,” Chuck said.
    “Oh, yeah, that funny little guy who chews on cigars?”
    “Right.”
    “Okay, Chuck, give me a full report as soon as you have anything, will you?”
    “Yes, sir,” he replied, and hung up.
    Elena Krieger had risen quickly through the ranks to become sergeant, then lieutenant, and now detective. Oh, she was brilliant—and comely enough, so everyone said—tall and red haired and curvy and all the rest of it, but that didn’t cheer him up one bit. Connelly’s solicitous manner made Chuck suspect that he had slept with her. He pictured the deputy chief’s skinny legs poking out from striped boxer briefs as he was straddled by a red-headed Amazon in a push-up bra. The image made him shudder.
    There was a knock on the door.
    “Come in,” Morton barked, gazing with dismay at the mounting pile of paperwork on his desk.
    Sergeant Ruggles poked his pink, bullet-shaped head through the door.
    “Yes, Sergeant?”
    “Message for you, sir—came in just as you arrived.”
    Ruggles had recently joined the NYPD after a stint as a beat cop in London. His accent was pure North Country, with the wide vowels and truncated consonants of that part of England. Chuck still hadn’t gotten used to how polite he was.
    “What is it?” he said.
    “Detective Krieger called to say she’s on her way and will be here in half an hour, sir.” Morton frowned.
    “The Valkyrie rides again,” he muttered. “Damn.”
    Ruggles’s pink forehead crinkled. “Excuse me, sir?”
    “That’s what they called her at Brooklyn South.”
    “On account of her being German, sir?”
    “That—and other things.”
    Ruggles coughed delicately.
    “I’ve heard she’s very … good looking, sir.”
    “Yeah, sure—a goddamn Teutonic goddess.”
    He looked up at Sergeant Ruggles, who was still lingering uncomfortably at the door, his thick fingers wrapped