Birthday Party Murder Read Online Free

working with him all these years. And lately, he’d noticed Sherman hadn’t been quite himself. Probably feeling his age.
    It was exactly the things you didn’t say that haunted you later, thought Bob, pulling open the outside door. Once inside the vestibule, he felt a small sense of alarm when he noticed the office door was open. Not ajar, wide open. This was unusual, and he quickened his pace as he proceeded into the reception area. There, a wastebasket was tipped over in the middle of the room.
    He stopped and righted it, setting it back in its place by Anne’s desk. Then it occurred to him that he wasn’t behaving very intelligently if the office actually had been burglarized and he stuffed his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t touch anything else. He looked around for further signs of a break-in, but nothing else seemed to be disturbed. Using a handkerchief, he pulled open the top drawer, where Anne kept the petty cash, but it hadn’t been touched. The only thing that was amiss was the door to Sherman’s office. It was open.
    Taken by itself, that wasn’t terribly unusual. What was unusual was the fact that the light was still burning. Sherman would never have left the light on.
    Maybe the burglar had been after something in Sherman’s office. But what? There was nothing of value there. On the rare occasions when a client had entrusted them with stock certificates or Grandma’s diamond lavaliere, they had always arranged for the transfer to take place in the bank so the valuables could be stored in a safe deposit box.
    Bob realized he was hedging. He didn’t want to go into Sherman’s office. He was afraid of what he would find. Angry with himself, he straightened his shoulders. How bad could it be? Overturned files, papers spread everywhere, he could deal with that. If the office had been defaced in some way, well, they employed a cleaning service. There was absolutely no reason for this sense of dread that was paralyzing him. He forced himself to take a deep breath, exhaled and walked through the doorway.
    Sherman was seated at his desk, with his head resting on the blotter.
    Bob felt as if he had been hit with a jolt of electricity. Why had he dithered so? A heart attack, a stroke, seconds counted. He ran to the desk and reached for Sherman’s wrist, hoping for a pulse, but Sherman’s arm was stiff and cold. Bob’s gaze went to Sherman’s face. He could see his right eye, partly open, and a pool of congealed blood spread out beneath him on the blotter. Bob dropped Sherman’s arm and stepped backward, fighting nausea.
    Panting, he reached over Sherman’s body for the phone. He had almost touched it when he saw the small handgun lying beside it. He snatched his hand back and reached instead into his pocket for his cell phone and dialed 911.
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    â€œIt looks like a clear case of suicide to me.”
    Bob stared in disbelief at Lieutenant Horowitz, the state police detective who investigated serious crimes in the region. Over the years the two men had developed a cordial working relationship based on mutual respect. Bob had been relieved when Horowitz appeared just as Sherman’s body was being taken away, convinced that the detective would not rest until he’d tracked down the murderer. Now he couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth.
    Horowitz fingered the small white card he was holding and tapped it against his other hand. “He had an appointment with Doc Ryder last week. You know anything about it?”
    â€œHe never said anything. Maybe a checkup or something ?”
    Bob sat while Horowitz punched the keypad of his cell phone and listened numbly while Horowitz questioned the doctor.
    â€œThe doc says he had pancreatic cancer. He refused treatment. Not that it would have done much good. Nothing they could do. He only had a couple of months at the most.”
    Bob absorbed the information.