Woman Chased by Crows Read Online Free

upcoming election, I mean that, but you already have a picture with me looking supportive. I don’t like being co-opted as a tacit backer of your campaign. And I definitely don’t want to be trotted out like a prize bull every time you need your picture in the paper.”
    After he hung up he wondered if he could have handled the exchange with more tact, but he tended to feel that way after most of his encounters with Mayor Bricknell. It was still a month until voting day. A long month.
    â€œChief?” Dorrie again. “There’s a Detective Delisle from Metro Homicide in town. He said he was checking in.”
    â€œWell now, that might distract me for a moment from the usual travail.” He opened his door and checked the big room. “He here?”
    â€œJust missed him, Chief,” Dorrie said. She was wearing a powder blue sweater set. “I didn’t want to interrupt your chat with the Mayor.”
    â€œMost considerate.” Orwell noted, as he often did, how very tidy his secretary looked, not a hair out of place. “Have I seen that sweater before?” he asked.
    â€œProbably. You gave it to me for Christmas.”
    â€œAh,” he said.
    â€œYour wife may have helped you pick it out,” Dorrie said.
    â€œYes, as I recall I was going to get you a karaoke machine.” Dorrie didn’t laugh. It was one of Orwell’s missions in life to make her smile. She rarely did. “This detective . . .”
    â€œDelisle,” she said. “Paul Delisle, Metro Homicide.” She articulated clearly. “Said he was hungry, be back after he had some lunch.”
    Orwell checked his watch. “Hmm. I’m a mite hungry, too,” he said. “Know where he was planning to eat?”
    â€œI told him to try the Hillside.”
    â€œWhat’s he look like?”
    â€œCan’t miss him, Chief: redhead, taller than you even, looks like a basketball player.”
    â€œThat colour suits you,” he said.
    â€œThank you,” she said. “And may I say that green tie suits you.”
    Orwell thought he detected the briefest flicker of a smile on his secretary’s face, but he could have been mistaken.

    Paul Delisle
had
been a helluva basketball player. Good ball-handler for all his size, decent outside shot, not afraid to stick his face in there. Went all the way through college on his rebounding and his outlet pass. He still had a floating grace in the way he moved, his head was always up, expressive wrists, wide square shoulders. He was sitting by the corner window with an angle on the bridge to his right and a long view of Vankleek for three blocks west.
    â€œDetective? I’m Orwell Brennan, understand you were looking for me. Don’t get up.”
    â€œChief. Pleasure. Paul Delisle.”
    Delisle put down his hamburger, wiped his hand and extended it across the table. The two hands together were the size of a picnic ham.
    â€œMind if I sit down?”
    â€œOh yeah, please. You don’t mind me eating?”
    â€œHell, I’m here to eat, too,” Orwell said. “Doreen, sweetie, give me a small steak, tell Leo it’s for me — he knows how I like it.”
    â€œAnything to drink, Chief?”
    â€œCanada Dry, lots of ice. Thanks. Cut your hair. Looks nice.”
    â€œThanks,” Doreen said. She fluffed her new look as she headed for the kitchen.
    â€œYou know everybody in town, don’t you? I watched you walking this way.”
    â€œSmall town. I’m easy to spot.”
    â€œMe too,” Delisle said, “but I’m more anonymous.”
    â€œThat’s the big city for you. So. How can I help you? You looking for somebody?”
    â€œIt’s sort of complicated.” He looked out the window at the Little Snipe flowing past. “There’s a ballet teacher in town. Calls herself Anna Daniel these days.”
    â€œShe a witness? Suspect?”
    â€œTell