A Stranger Lies There Read Online Free Page B

anything.
    â€œWhy don’t we sit down,” he suggested.
    Deirdre took a seat on the couch, switched on the table lamp next to the old photograph of her sister. I sat next to her on the edge of the cushions, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. I rubbed my hands together nervously.
    Tyler didn’t move. “Mind if my partner looks around?”
    â€œLooks around? Why? We’re the ones that called it in,” I pointed out.
    â€œJust routine.”
    â€œRoutine? I don’t understand.”
    â€œLook, we just have to cover all the bases. You can say no.”
    â€œGo ahead,” Deirdre told him, putting a hand on my leg. “I don’t mind.”
    â€œWell I mind,” I said, “but just get it over with. One of us can go with you, right?”
    â€œIf you think that’s necessary,” Tyler answered.
    I nodded to Deirdre and she got up to follow the second officer. A worried glance over her shoulder as she left. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. But before I could say anything Tyler started in with me, and I let it go. I told him everything, starting with getting up this morning and making coffee. How I’d dropped it on the front porch in surprise. That Deirdre thought the boy looked like me. Tyler scribbled in his notebook. He took me back to last night.
    I shrugged. “Worked in the shop till around ten. Then watched some TV and went to bed a little after eleven.”
    â€œShop?”
    â€œYeah. My garage. Power tools.”
    â€œThey loud?”
    â€œIn there? Yeah. Not so much from outside.”
    â€œProbably why you didn’t hear anything,” Tyler said, writing some more. “What time you start?”
    â€œMust have been around eight. I was in there a couple hours.”
    He asked about Deirdre. I told him she was asleep by the time I got in bed. No, we hadn’t seen anything unusual in the neighborhood recently. No unfamiliar cars parked on the street or strange people hanging around, at least that I could remember. When we were done, Tyler glanced out the front window.
    â€œAt least you found him early. Must be ninety out there already.”
    I checked the indoor-outdoor thermometer by the front door. Eighty-eight.
    â€œDetective Branson is here,” Tyler said. “Let’s go outside.”
    The white coroner’s van had backed up to the driveway and yellow crime scene tape had already been strung up. Lots of uniforms; one guy in street clothes, carrying a toolbox and wearing a vest and baseball cap identifying him as PSPD. Some of my neighbors were gathered in the street, talking quietly, trying to process it all. We pushed through them to a patrol car, where the detective was speaking with one of the deputies. When he turned to us Tyler introduced me.
    Branson was dressed in slacks and a sport coat, his tie pulled down to allow the top button of his shirt to be open. Tall and well built. Late forties, with a brown crew cut that was going gray at the top. He had a military man’s air about him and an arrogance that a lot of cops seem to adopt. I decided I didn’t like him.
    He pulled off his sunglasses and addressed Tyler and the other uniform. “Start talking to the neighbors. See if anybody saw anything.” To me he said, “Let’s go over here,” as both officers hurried off. We crossed the street and went up a few houses to where his sedan was parked. He sat against the front side of the car, put his sunglasses in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lit one and stuffed the pack and lighter back in his pocket.
    â€œTell me what happened.”
    He took a hard pull on the cigarette, his small, dark eyes appraising me. Blew smoke into the warm breeze. I’d read somewhere that a lot of homicide detectives smoked to mask the smell of death.
    â€œThere’s not much to tell. I woke up this morning about six, made some coffee and went out to the front porch