Warrior in the Shadows Read Online Free Page A
Author: Marcus Wynne
he'd left his electronic leash upstairs.
He swallowed the last buttered bit of his croissant and washed it down with the rich bottom of his coffee when Jill poked her head out the front door of the diner.
"Charley?" she said. "There's a phone call for you… it's your friend Bobby Lee. He said it's important."
Charley moved so quickly it startled the couple beside him. He rolled up out of the chair to his feet, scooping up his coffee cup, the crumb-filled plate, and the unread newspaper, and continued on through the open door Jill held for him.
"Is he on the phone?" Charley said.
Neil held out the cordless phone. Charley left his plate on the counter, set the newspaper back beside it, and took the phone.
"Thanks, Neil," Charley said. "Hello?"
"You got to answer your pager, man. That's what we give you that thing for," said Bobby Lee Martaine. He had a low, intense voice, and that was a good description of Charley's best friend, one of the most gifted homicide investigators in the Midwest and the quiet star of the Major Crimes Unit in the Minneapolis Police Department.
"The one morning I forget it is the morning you call," Charley said.
"I think you just don't wear it."
"There's some of that, but I found that if I left it on and set it to vibrate, it made me dangerous around women," Charley said, winking at Jill. She made a backhand feint at his head and he ducked.
"Quit fucking around and get over here," Bobby Lee said. There was none of his typical humor in his voice, and that straightened Charley up. "I'm at the intersection of West Forty-third Street and Harriet Parkway, right across the lake from you. The big house, you know which one I'm talking about. Bring all your stuff and plenty of color."
"I'm on it," Charley said. "I'll be there in about ten minutes. Can you tell me anything?"
"It's ugly and it's going to be press intensive."
Charley's face went through a subtle metamorphosis, enough for Jill to look at him twice. Charley caught that and he smoothed out the lines in his face with a good approximation of his habitual expression of wry amusement.
"I'll be there," he said. "Sorry for missing the page."
"Whatever, see you now."
Charley handed the phone back to Jill, who replaced it in the charging cradle. "Thanks, hon," he said. "I'll see you all later."
"Bye, Charley," Jill said.
Neil just waved as Charley went out the door and then button-hooked right and into the doorway next door. He opened the door and squeezed up the narrow stairwell to the short line of apartment doors and went into his. He scooped up his camera bag and went to the corner of his kitchenette. He opened the icebox and took out a plastic-wrapped brick of high-speed color film and dropped it into the Domke bag. He took out his power winder and flash unit and replaced the AA batteries with fresh ones taken from a multipack in the icebox so that all his battery-powered equipment had fresh batteries.
He went to the bedside and opened the drawer, lifted the handkerchief and looked at the Glock 30 for a moment, then replaced the handkerchief and went out the door, pulling it closed behind him.
He was ready to shoot.
1.3
Detective Sergeant Bobby Lee Martaine never just worked a crime scene; he prowled a crime scene, sniffing at the evidence technicians, pawing at the detritus of a room set awry by violence, staring at the witnesses and suspects like a big alley cat. He was quiet and intense, and the low growl of his voice made the guilty feel guiltier and the innocent scared to death. He was short and stocky and dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a five o'clock shadow that never seemed to go away despite his shaving twice a day. He hated ties and sport coats and suits and cultivated the look of the old football player who'd played the detective Hunter on the television series: Levi's, cowboy boots, a plain oxford shirt with the tie knotted but pulled loose under a plain sport coat, the sport coat worn a size too large to conceal the
He swallowed the last buttered bit of his croissant and washed it down with the rich bottom of his coffee when Jill poked her head out the front door of the diner.
"Charley?" she said. "There's a phone call for you… it's your friend Bobby Lee. He said it's important."
Charley moved so quickly it startled the couple beside him. He rolled up out of the chair to his feet, scooping up his coffee cup, the crumb-filled plate, and the unread newspaper, and continued on through the open door Jill held for him.
"Is he on the phone?" Charley said.
Neil held out the cordless phone. Charley left his plate on the counter, set the newspaper back beside it, and took the phone.
"Thanks, Neil," Charley said. "Hello?"
"You got to answer your pager, man. That's what we give you that thing for," said Bobby Lee Martaine. He had a low, intense voice, and that was a good description of Charley's best friend, one of the most gifted homicide investigators in the Midwest and the quiet star of the Major Crimes Unit in the Minneapolis Police Department.
"The one morning I forget it is the morning you call," Charley said.
"I think you just don't wear it."
"There's some of that, but I found that if I left it on and set it to vibrate, it made me dangerous around women," Charley said, winking at Jill. She made a backhand feint at his head and he ducked.
"Quit fucking around and get over here," Bobby Lee said. There was none of his typical humor in his voice, and that straightened Charley up. "I'm at the intersection of West Forty-third Street and Harriet Parkway, right across the lake from you. The big house, you know which one I'm talking about. Bring all your stuff and plenty of color."
"I'm on it," Charley said. "I'll be there in about ten minutes. Can you tell me anything?"
"It's ugly and it's going to be press intensive."
Charley's face went through a subtle metamorphosis, enough for Jill to look at him twice. Charley caught that and he smoothed out the lines in his face with a good approximation of his habitual expression of wry amusement.
"I'll be there," he said. "Sorry for missing the page."
"Whatever, see you now."
Charley handed the phone back to Jill, who replaced it in the charging cradle. "Thanks, hon," he said. "I'll see you all later."
"Bye, Charley," Jill said.
Neil just waved as Charley went out the door and then button-hooked right and into the doorway next door. He opened the door and squeezed up the narrow stairwell to the short line of apartment doors and went into his. He scooped up his camera bag and went to the corner of his kitchenette. He opened the icebox and took out a plastic-wrapped brick of high-speed color film and dropped it into the Domke bag. He took out his power winder and flash unit and replaced the AA batteries with fresh ones taken from a multipack in the icebox so that all his battery-powered equipment had fresh batteries.
He went to the bedside and opened the drawer, lifted the handkerchief and looked at the Glock 30 for a moment, then replaced the handkerchief and went out the door, pulling it closed behind him.
He was ready to shoot.
1.3
Detective Sergeant Bobby Lee Martaine never just worked a crime scene; he prowled a crime scene, sniffing at the evidence technicians, pawing at the detritus of a room set awry by violence, staring at the witnesses and suspects like a big alley cat. He was quiet and intense, and the low growl of his voice made the guilty feel guiltier and the innocent scared to death. He was short and stocky and dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a five o'clock shadow that never seemed to go away despite his shaving twice a day. He hated ties and sport coats and suits and cultivated the look of the old football player who'd played the detective Hunter on the television series: Levi's, cowboy boots, a plain oxford shirt with the tie knotted but pulled loose under a plain sport coat, the sport coat worn a size too large to conceal the
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