The Night Searchers (A Sharon McCone Mystery) Read Online Free

meant to hold a gun, but I’d stuffed it with a couple of pairs of gloves instead. Last year I’d investigated a complicated case involving the gun control issue, and after it was over, I’d decided that firepower would no longer play a part in my life—at least for now.
    When I got back to the fence I couldn’t spot Hy. I approached the gap where he’d entered. Peered through and down. No light or other motion below. What to do now? Certainly not bellow his name down there to get his attention.
    If I followed, I would be trespassing—an offense that, if I was caught, could prompt the state board to hold a hearing and lift my license, possibly destroying my livelihood and credibility. Could a good lawyer prove just cause for such an act? In the back of my mind I heard Glenn Solomon’s voice saying, “Don’t do it.”
    I’ve never taken advice—however wise—well.
    I slipped through the open space in the fence, then paused to listen and stare downward into the darkness.
    No sounds. And nothing to see except shapes that turned out to be slabs of broken concrete. The ground was sandy, with outcroppings of hard rock, and little trails of soil trickled down after me as I descended. Then I tripped on something and skidded the rest of the way.
    At the bottom of the excavated area, I pushed up and switched on my flash. It revealed a scene similar to those in post-apocalyptic sci-fi movies. Rubble: earth and concrete and stone. Piles of dirt poised on the brink of toppling. Trash that people had dumped: beer cans and pop bottles; torn newspapers and magazines; an ancient transistor radio; broken glass and flowerpots and crockery; Styrofoam cups and food wrappers. All the garbage that people with no regard for the planet had discarded, rather than disposing of properly.
    “Ripinsky?” I whispered.
    No response.
    There was a cleared space in the center of all the junk, and as I approached it my flashlight showed a pile of charred wood. I went closer, studied the ground around it. Plastic jugs, food wrappers. A standard meal for homeless people—fortunate homeless people. The majority did without.
    No indication of satanic infant sacrifices. No discarded hoods. Nothing but a place that beckoned to those who had lost everything—or never had it.
    Hy’s voice spoke in a fierce whisper behind me: “What the hell are you doing here, McCone?”
    1:05 a.m.
    “I thought it was you. I saw you sneaking in,” I said in the same fierce whisper. “So you’re still in the city.”
    “Obviously.”
    “Why did you lie to me?”
    “I didn’t. All I said was I would be away for a while.”
    “What about the hostage negotiation?”
    “That’ll be clear to you in due time. Now what’re you doing here?”
    I shook my head. “No, I asked you first.”
    “You sound like this is a kids’ game.”
    “We’re neither of us kids. Answer me!”
    “Sssh. Come on over behind that foundation wall. It’s the best vantage point I could find.”
    “Vantage point for what?”
    “Not now.”
    He guided me over the rough ground and we sat. The night was cold, and I was glad to have on my down vest. As it was, the cold of the ground penetrated my jeans and my nose already felt half frozen. Hy put his arm around me, and we leaned back against the incline.
    “If we’re lucky,” he said, “we won’t have to wait long. If anything happens, you stay put and let me handle it.”
    “What’re we waiting for? What could happen?”
    “Let it go for now, McCone. We shouldn’t talk down here—too dangerous.”
    7:37 a.m.
    We weren’t lucky, because nothing happened. The time dragged on, and at some point I must’ve dozed off, because I jerked when Hy said, “All right, dammit, we’ve been here long enough. We’d better get out before we freeze to death.”
    “Home? And then you’ll tell me what’s going down?”
    “Not home. Not yet.”
    “Why? Don’t tell me there’s a chance that what happened to our old house is happening