Casting Bones Read Online Free

charity golf with him a couple of years ago.’
    â€˜Raising money for what charity?’ Archer didn’t look up.
    â€˜No, no. I mean, nobody would ever play with the guy. That was the problem. Judge David Lerner was a duffer with an ugly attitude and a really bad hook. Spent half the time looking for lost balls and bitching his head off. This one time he needed a partner, so I drew the short straw.’
    â€˜Uh-huh.
Charity
golf.’ Archer got it.
    â€˜Cocky guy.’
    â€˜Not anymore, Sarge.’
    â€˜No, I suppose not.’
    Archer finally looked up. ‘You got any thoughts on why someone would want him dead?’
    â€˜He was a judge. A heavy-handed judge. There are probably hundreds of reasons why people would want him dead. This one may not be easy.’
    Archer turned back to the flat screen. When he had exited the force up north, even Detroit had sprung for the big flat-screen monitors. Technology was changing so fast, and he was still a two-finger wonder at typing. Get with the program, Archer.
    What had Strand told him? Only twenty-two percent of all murders were solved?
    â€˜My father was a cop.’
    â€˜Yeah?’ Sullivan sounded half interested.
    â€˜He taught me one thing. The most important thing to look for in any case.’
    â€˜What was that?’
    â€˜Keep asking why.’
    â€˜â€œWhy”?’
    â€˜You start every case by asking why. Why did someone kill this person? You follow up with a why, and a why, and a why. When you run out of whys, when you run out of questions and answers, you’ve solved the murder.’
    â€˜Well, you know it’s not that simple,’ Sullivan said.
    â€˜No, Sergeant, I don’t know that. It pretty much works every time. And if the crime is still unsolved, it’s because you haven’t answered every
why
.’
    Sullivan cocked his head, staring at Archer.
    â€˜We all have our methods, Archer.’
    â€˜We do. Mine makes the most sense.’
    The officer turned to walk away.
    â€˜Oh, Sergeant, you think of anything,
you
let me know. You know this town a whole lot better than I do.’
    The other equation was who. He knew why they killed Denise. To send him the sternest of warnings, that if he didn’t quit pushing the case against a certain drug ring, they would make his life miserable. But he didn’t know exactly who had committed the crime. He didn’t know yet. He kept it low-key, but there were friends in Detroit. People who were in his corner, working the edges.
    Archer finished the report along with his third cup of green tea. The caffeine in coffee drove him crazy so he settled for this thin bitter liquid. It was healthier, too, so he’d been told.
    Throwing on his dark blue sport coat, he stood up and took the elevator to the lobby. Nodding to the young black woman who doubled as dispatcher and information officer he said, ‘Gonna grab a bite to eat, Cheryl. Call me on the cell if anything comes in from the coroner’s office, OK?’
    One o’clock and he was hungry. And thirsty.
    He rented a little cottage in the French Quarter, ten minutes by car. A car that NOPD provided. Probably some drug dealer’s ride or a repo. No restrictions. Archer used it for work, and to drive to lunch. But when he went home in the evening and to work the next morning, he took the streetcar. It beat getting towed every week or so when they hosed down the streets in the Quarter and he’d forget if it was odd or even streets. Paying for impounded cars applied to everyone, even detectives.
    Driving to Decatur he turned left. There was a parking spot on the street and he pulled in.
    The nice thing about the French Quarter was that you didn’t really need a car. It was made for walking. He could pass dozens of restaurants, bars and coffee shops on foot. He’d stand outside, study the menu on the wall or window, look inside and see what kind of clientele frequented