Sleep of the Innocent Read Online Free Page A

which the housekeeper should have screamed and fainted in alarm. She didn’t.
    â€œShe’s down at the stable,” she said, in the same tones she might reserve for describing the whereabouts of the man who looked after the septic tank.
    â€œIn that case, I’ll wait,” said Lucas, prepared, if necessary, to sit on the front steps. Because if he left without seeing her, bloody Baldwin would send him out again. He wondered grimly how long he was going to be on special duty, stuck with Baldwin.
    â€œYou’ll have a long wait, then,” she remarked sourly. “If it’s that important, you’d better go and speak to her yourself. It’s in back—you can’t miss it,” she said, pointing to the gravel walk that circled the house.
    If the neat white building hadn’t looked very like a stable to him, he would have been drawn to it by the small warm noises—the stamps and snorts and nickering—that ooze out of all stables. The wide door was open, giving onto a clean cement floor, and he stepped inside. There were six box stalls, three on each side, but only three of them had tenants. The first on the left had been fitted up as a tack room, its walls bright with ribbons, and the first on the right as an office, with a desk, two chairs, and a camp bed all crowded into it. The stall next to it was stacked neatly with feed and straw. Mozart bubbled gently from a cassette player on the desk.
    Two heads emerged over their doors to look at him; a third horse, a chestnut mare, was standing facing him with a faraway look on her face as her legs were being vigorously rubbed down. “Mrs. Neilson?” said Lucas to the crouching back in front of him. “Could I have a word with you?” The chestnut tossed her head in warning, and Mrs. Neilson rose quickly to her feet. She looked to be in her mid-twenties—startlingly young to be Neilson’s wife. She had long shiny hair the same color as the mare’s glossy coat, and dark eyes that regarded him acutely, wondering no doubt what in hell he was doing there. She was dressed in worn, mud-splashed corduroy breeches, a beige turtleneck sweater, and a gray tweed jacket with scuffed leather patches and a tear on the sleeve, but her riding boots were as clean and well cared for as the tack in the room to his left and as the coat of the chestnut mare. What man could possibly have traded—even temporarily—this magnificent creature for that thin, messy little slut in the hotel? Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe Jennifer’s story was true, then.
    â€œYes, certainly,” said Mrs. Neilson at last, since he seemed to be without anything to say. “What did you want a word about?”
    He gritted his teeth. This was the bad part, the part he had been avoiding by thinking irrelevant thoughts about her clothes. “I’m with the Metropolitan Toronto Police—Sergeant Lucas.” He held out his card, as before. “You’re Mrs. Carl Neilson? Your husband is Carl Neilson?” It was, he knew, a stupid thing to say, but it gave the widow the chance to realize that something was wrong.
    It worked. She laid a hand on the mare’s withers, as if to steady herself. “Something has happened,” she said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
    â€œI’m afraid so, Mrs. Neilson. There’s been a—something has happened at your husband’s hotel, at the Karlsbad. He’s been shot.”
    â€œHe’s dead?” she asked, her voice flat. Lucas nodded, bracing himself. This was when the reaction started. Sometimes. Sometimes it didn’t start until much later, and what you got was this cool stunned acceptance. Not as good for the widow, maybe, but a hell of a lot easier on him. “You’re sure?” she asked again. “Dead? Not just hurt?”
    â€œNo—I’m afraid there’s no question of that,” he said gently. “He