Birthday Party Murder Read Online Free Page A

Pancreatic cancer. He hadn’t had the faintest idea.
    â€œHe never said a word to me about it.”
    Horowitz put a hand on his shoulder. “Lots of times they don’t, you know. Once they accept that it’s inevitable, they just decide to end it all without any fuss. Nice and neat. It’s a way of taking control.”
    Bob’s ears roared and he put up his hands to cover them. He didn’t want to hear it, to admit it. Horowitz was wrong. He didn’t know Sherman; he didn’t know the first thing about it.
    Horowitz stood, his hands in the pockets of his tan raincoat, and studied Bob. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked. “Do you want a ride home or something?”
    â€œNo, I’ll stay,” said Bob, “if that’s okay with you.”
    Horowitz held up a hand. “It’s fine. We’re done here.”
    â€œYou’re done?”
    Horowitz nodded. “Crime scene boys dusted for prints, they bagged the gun for forensics, but I don’t think there’re going to be any surprises.”
    He paused in the doorway, as if he were reluctant to leave. “I’m real sorry about this, you know,” he said, his voice tired.
    Bob looked at the detective’s gray, world-weary face and wished he could wrap his hands around his neck and shake him. That was crazy, he knew, but this whole thing was crazy. He wanted to erase Horowitz, erase the entire morning and go back to yesterday when Sherman was still alive.
    â€œThanks,” said Bob. “Call me when you get the medical examiner’s report?”
    â€œSure thing.”
    Then Horowitz finally left and he was alone. He sat at his desk and looked at the blank legal pad in front of him. He drew a line down the middle, intending to find a way to make sense of it all. On one side he wrote “cancer.” What should he put on the other side? He didn’t know. Sherman had no family. He’d always put his work first. But to someone faced with cancer, he doubted work would continue to seem very important.
    Bob propped his elbows on the desk and buried his head in his hands. Why hadn’t he said something when he’d first noticed Sherman seemed distracted? He’d attributed it to his age, but now he knew it was cancer. Sherman had been in pain; his suffering had driven him to commit suicide.
    No more problems for him, snorted Bob, but a whole lot of problems for me .
    Instantly, Bob felt guilty and ashamed. Sherman would never have left him in this mess unless he’d been in despair. And that was what hurt the most. He’d thought Sherman was more than his partner, he’d thought Sherman was his friend. Why hadn’t he turned to him—if not for support and comfort, at least to say good-bye?
    Sherman always said good-bye. He had never once left the office ahead of Bob without poking his head into Bob’s doorway to let him know he was leaving.
    Bob took off his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes, remembering the Sutcliffe case. All the evidence had weighed heavily against Tim Sutcliffe, who eyewitnesses agreed had robbed the Quik Stop one steamy July night, shooting the clerk and leaving her for dead. Even Bob had figured Sutcliffe was really guilty, given his extensive record. But Sherman had plugged away, persistently questioning the eyewitnesses and proving, one by one, that they hadn’t really seen the robber that well. Only the clerk had remained certain it was Sutcliffe. And then, just when the case was to go to the jury, hadn’t somebody else confessed to the crime?
    No, thought Bob. Sherman never gave up, even when it seemed hopeless, and he wouldn’t have killed himself. Which meant somebody else had to have done it.
    Suddenly, Bob remembered the overturned trash can and the unlatched door. Of course. Someone had come in last night when Sherman was working late and shot him. Then they’d left the gun so it would look like suicide. He