Kiss of Evil Read Online Free Page B

it?”
    Paris, sitting behind the desk, only half-listening, knows the case Dietricht is working on. Muslim woman raped and murdered at Lakeview Terrace.
    “Here it comes, Ahmed. Simple question requiring a one-word answer. Ready? Did you, or did you not, see Terrance Muhammad in the lobby of 8160 that night?” With this, Bobby reaches over and hits the speakerphone button, making Paris privy to the conversation, and to what Bobby obviously believes will be a classic piece-of-shit answer.
    He is right.
    “It is not so simple,” Ahmed says. “As you know, the CMHA is way behind on their repairs. We have taken them to court many, many times over this. Leaking ceilings, peeling plaster, unsafe balcony railings. And not to mention the rats, the vermin. Add to this the low wattage of the singular lamp in the lobby of 8160 and the certainty of such an identification becomes suspect at best. I would like to say that I saw Mr. Muhammad with some degree of certitude, but I cannot. And to think, a few extra watts, a few extra pennies a year might have made all the difference in a criminal investigation.”
    “Ahmed, I’ve got you on the speakerphone now. I’m sitting here with Special Agent Johnny Rivers of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Say hello to him.”
    Paris buries his head in his hands. Johnny Rivers. Bobby Dietricht is famous for the pop culture mixed reference. Johnny Rivers recorded “Secret Agent Man,” not “Special Agent Man.” But it was close enough for Ahmed, and that’s all that matters.
    “The FBI is there?” Ahmed asks, a little sheepishly. “I don’t . . . why is this, please?”
    “Because the Justice Department is looking into the Nation of Islam and the contracts they have with Housing and Urban Development,” Bobby says. “Seems there’s been some allegations of corruption, extortion, things like that. Not to mention Homeland Security.”
    Silence. Bobby has him.
    “Could you take me off the speakerphone, please?” Ahmed asks.
    Bobby and Paris touch a silent high five. Bobby picks up the hand-set. “Buy me coffee, Ahmed. When? No . . . how about now? Now is good for me. Twenty minutes. Hatton’s.”
    Bobby hangs up the phone, stands, shoots his cuffs, turns to leave, then suddenly stops, sniffs the air. “Jack?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Question for you.”
    “Yeah,” Paris answers, annoyed. He has just read the same sentence for the fifth time.
    “Why do you smell like Jennifer Lopez?”
    The phone. Of all the possibilities that exist when a homicide detective’s phone rings at work—from his long list of lowlife informants, to the coroner’s office calling with bad news, to the unit commander ringing with the cheery tidings that another body has been found and you get to go poke it with things—the one call that invariably changes his day completely is the one that begins:
    “Hi, Daddy!”
    It is always springtime in his daughter’s voice.
    “Hi , Missy.”
    “Merry Christmas!”
    “Merry Christmas to you, honey, but it’s not for four more days!” Paris says. “How’s school?”
    “Good. We got out last Friday for the holidays.”
    Of course, Paris realizes. Why doesn’t he ever stop and think before asking questions like that? “So what’s cookin’?”
    “Well,” she says, taking a big swallow. “You know that we haven’t seen each other in a week and a half, right?”
    “Okay,” Paris says, his heart aching with love for this little girl. She is so much like her mother. The Setup. The Flattery. The Kill. He lets her play it out.
    “And I miss you,” Melissa adds.
    “I miss you, too.”
    Swallow number two. “Did Mom tell you that she has her office Christmas party tonight?”
    “She may have mentioned something about it.”
    “And do you remember if she told you that I was thinking about having a few of my friends over tonight, too?”
    “No, honey. But it sounds like fun.”
    “Well . . . it turns out that Darla has a cold.”
    “Is