Sleep of the Innocent Read Online Free

comfortable there while we check some of these wild notions out, Miss Wilson. I’ll get someone to bring you some coffee. You want a muffin? It’s the best thing you’re likely to get around here right now.”
    She looked as if she were considering a protest, shrugged her shoulders and huddled down in her chair.
    Lucas’s faint hope of catching a half-hour nap—while the mills of justice ground up Miss Wilson’s statement and processed it—dried up as soon as he hit the corridor. The reason was walking rapidly toward him, a vision of expensive tailoring and more expensive shoe leather. Inspector Matt Baldwin, who for the past three uncomfortable weeks had replaced Inspector John Sanders as his superior officer, with a look on his face that meant more work. More work for Robert Lucas, that is, not for Baldy.
    â€œPatterson finally get down there?” he snapped. Hostility electrified the corridor.
    So the puss had clawed its way out of the sack. “Yeah. He’s there now. I was just clearing up one or two things before going home.”
    â€œNot until someone goes out to talk to the widow,” said Baldwin. “I just found out who it is, so be tactful, eh? This ain’t Ma Jones whose old man got knifed in a brawl. It’s Lydia Neilson.”
    â€œIsn’t she just a mile or two out of our jurisdiction?” asked Lucas with heavy irony. “Why not let the locals tell her she’s a widow?”
    â€œShe may be a witness. And I’ve cleared it. Now get the hell over there, Lucas.”
    Common sense told Lucas to shut up and get out; exhaustion prodded him into one last flicker of insubordination. “Do we have an address? More precise than Mrs. Neilson, somewhere near Thornhill?”
    Lucas’s bad temper remained through an hour of rush-hour traffic, past the exit off the expressway, down two secondary roads, and into the play farms of exurbia. Everything looked bright and cold and dirty with the detritus of winter. But familiar. Once upon a time, in a time and a world far from this one, he had lived out here on one of these little gemlike farms, until his father had tired of country life and his mother had tired of his father. And of him. And the farm was sold—at a handsome profit, no doubt, since everything his father did was at a handsome profit. Except raise a son. And he grinned at that thought, slowed down, and signaled for a right.
    The broad acres belonging to Carl Neilson were protected from the highway by a stone wall and wrought-iron gates. On one of the pillars a polished brass plaque said FREYFIELDS. The gates were open, and Lucas pulled in. The house was pseudo-Georgian; the white fencing said horses, and the whole setup screamed money. As he mounted the steps, he wondered why Baldy hadn’t chosen to come out himself. Clearly Mrs. Neilson would be right up his alley. It must have been an epic struggle between lethargy and upward mobility while he was deciding to send Robert Lucas instead. The chimes rang faintly, as though muffled by miles of carpets and tapestries and draperies and other expensive things. The door opened with a sigh; its place was taken by a square middle-aged woman in a white uniform and apron, who looked like something between a practical nurse and a short-order cook. She tried to size him up, failed, and addressed him in a manner in which courtesy mingled uneasily with contempt.
    â€œMay I help you?” The words were meek enough, but the tone was one of crossed arms and heavily planted feet.
    â€œI’d like to speak to Mrs. Neilson,” he said briskly.
    â€œI’m afraid she isn’t here at the moment. Is she expecting you?”
    With a sigh he pulled out his ID and set it squarely under the woman’s nose. “Sergeant Robert Lucas. Metropolitan Toronto Police. It is most important that I talk to Mrs. Neilson as soon as possible. Do you know where she is?” This was the point at