The Christine Murders Read Online Free Page B

and Kelley lived.
    He had, of course, been the prime suspect at first, especially after Kelley’s friends at the hotel had told about severe trouble in the Grant marriage and Kelley’s unhappiness and plans to leave her husband. But several hours of questioning convinced John Kinsella that Gary Grant was innocent. He claimed to have been watching movies most of the night, until he fell asleep, only waking up when the police roused him the next morning after Kelley’s body had been found.
    Kinsella believed him. There were no signs of struggle, in the nearly barren apartment, and no signs on Grant himself that he had struck or beaten anyone. And even if somebody suspected him of killing his wife there, how would he have gotten her body out of the place and all the way over to the Mission District? The Grants had no car. Their apartment was also in full view and hearing of several neighbors, some of whom told Kinsella that they were hanging around outside the building talking until well after midnight. They all knew Kelley, liked her, and frequently saw her come home after her shift at work; bad as the place looked, everybody living there seemed to have the attitude that he or she was responsible for the other tenants and they watched out for anything unusual going on.
    But all the night owls swore that Kelley had not come back to her apartment Tuesday night. Things had been quiet. And hardly anyone ever saw crazy Gary anymore at all, unless he was off to rent another stack of movies at some Red Box or video store.
    It simply wasn’t logical that Grant could have beaten and strangled his wife to death in that little apartment with its wafer-thin walls and then managed to carry her body down three flights of stairs to the street outside. Even if he had, what would he have done next, call a taxi?
    So on a beautifully crisp autumn Friday morning, John Kinsella found himself with yet another homicide to solve, a lovely young woman dead, and no suspects, or clues. Only one gigantic stomachache to torture him while he figured out what to do next and wished he were, at that moment, anywhere else but in San Francisco.

CHAPTER SIX
     
    LATER THAT SAME DAY
     
    Late on Friday afternoon, while updating her flight manual, Christine found the message slip with Luther Ross-Wilkerson’s number, caught among the pages she had stored in her tote bag before the Honolulu flight. She’d totally forgotten about the strange call, but decided to find out who Mr. Wilkerson was and what he wanted. Using her land-line, she punched in the numbers and waited while the number rang five times. She was just about to hang up when someone finally answered.
    “European Pacific Imports. May I help you?” A woman’s voice, crisp and professional.
    “I do hope so. Is there a Mr. Wilkerson there?” Christine asked.
    “Yes, Mr. Wilkerson is our owner and manager. But I’m afraid he has left for the day.” Christine glanced at the clock. It was past five. “Could anyone else help you? Is this about an order?”
    “No, it’s not an order. I am returning a call I received from Mr. Wilkerson. He didn’t leave a reason for the call, so I have no idea what he wanted to talk to me about. He did indicate it was urgent.”
    “I see. Well, if you will give me your name and number, I’ll have him call you tomorrow. He always comes in on Saturday,” the woman replied.
    Christine hesitated. Why did the name still sound so familiar? And should she leave her number not knowing what this was about?
    “Hello? Are you still there?”
    “Yes, I’m here. Let me see. All right, perhaps you could have Mr. Wilkerson call me back. My name is Christine Lindsey, and I’m with International World Airlines. Just let him know I’m returning his call.” For safety sake, she gave only the land-line number and not her cell.
    “You are not a customer, Miss Lindsey?” The polite woman asked.
    “No, I’m not.”
    “Very well, then. Mr. Wilkerson will get your message