House of Ghosts Read Online Free
Author: Lawrence S. Kaplan
Tags: Fiction, Historical, Mystery & Detective
perceived to be on the wrong side of the Good Book. For nearly eighteen years, List lived a life of lies until he was apprehended with the help of the TV show.
Joe completed the registration form and clicked the “finish” icon. He turned the chair toward Fredericks. “The case was ice cold. I convinced Walsh to put List’s face on the show,” he lectured. “Cheer up. If you’re lucky, a homicidal maniac will kill five or six poor slobs on your watch and provide the reason for you to call Walsh.”
Roxy sat at Fredericks’ feet waiting for more M&Ms. Fredericks abruptly stood. “Fuck you.”
Joe finished his beer. He fished through the desk’s pencil drawer, found a Marlboro and passed the cigarette under his nose. “Stale but serviceable.” He flicked the Zippo. Smoke rose to the ceiling. “What about the prints on the wax paper?”
“Most were too smudged to be of any value. There’s a thumbprint that is identifiable—Elmer the sandwich guy at Duke’s Deli. He served three years for drug possession; been clean for ten years.
“He’s a good guy.” Joe leaned back in the chair. “You got something else?”
“I’m getting heat to wrap this up. Swedge’s attorney packs a lot of weight. We’re not going to look for the identity of the sandwich eater.”
Joe knocked the cigarette inside a coffee can that he used as an ashtray. He rubbed the back of his head. “Why am I not surprised?” The phone rang. The caller ID said Pole Dancer. He pointed toward the door. “I’ve got to take this call.”
Chapter 3
W ESTFIELD , NJ A UGUST 2000
RESTING AGAINST AN OAK, Joe drained a can of Bud. It felt good to be outside like he used to do every Thursday, his day to hit the links from April through the first snowy winter day. Running a hand over the grip of the five-iron nestled in the manicured grass, Joe fought the urge to take a hack at the lone dandelion that managed to evade an army of landscapers on the payroll of Fairview Cemetery.
Taking a hit on his tenth Marlboro of the day, brought a strange pain underneath his breast bone like sandpaper on sandpaper. Elaine never lost an opportunity to predict that he would end up like Uncle Ernie on an oxygen tank after losing a lung. Maybe she was right when she suggested he purchase a plot—it was only a matter of time and he ought to choose the spot.
Joe coughed up a plug of nicotine infused mucous, spitting it toward a primrose patch. He checked his watch—ten o’clock. Dr. Headcase would be proud. He hadn’t seen the rising sun in a year. He’d been on the hill since eight for one reason: Until he saw the dirt flooding over Preston Swedge, it wasn’t over.
Ed Stoval said that Preston’s attorney came by to pick up one of Preston’s suits. The arrangements were private. Joe laughed at the idea—nothing was private. Catman Prather, an ex-con Joe helped get a job at Holly’s Home for Funerals, had given him the heads up the day before that Preston’s body was being released by the medical examiner. The burial had to be done on the quick, before eleven the next day. Catman didn’t know why. The caretaker at Fairview bitched and moaned he wouldn’t have the gravesite prepared. A promised C-note assured a backhoe would be digging by eight in the Oakdale section.
Joe reached into his goodie bag, retrieved an opened bag of Cheese Doodles, and popped a handful into his mouth. After muscling a canopy over the plot to keep the grieving family out of the blazing sun, two gravediggers tidied the work area, covering the excavated earth with a green tarpaulin. Joe snapped open the front page of
The Star Ledger
. The lead article—“Vice President Al Gore told reportersduring a press conference before boarding his plane at Edwards Air Force Base that he had not ruled out the possibility of including Ralph Nader or other third party candidates in the upcoming presidential debates.” Joe had one comment, “The schmucks deserve each
Joe completed the registration form and clicked the “finish” icon. He turned the chair toward Fredericks. “The case was ice cold. I convinced Walsh to put List’s face on the show,” he lectured. “Cheer up. If you’re lucky, a homicidal maniac will kill five or six poor slobs on your watch and provide the reason for you to call Walsh.”
Roxy sat at Fredericks’ feet waiting for more M&Ms. Fredericks abruptly stood. “Fuck you.”
Joe finished his beer. He fished through the desk’s pencil drawer, found a Marlboro and passed the cigarette under his nose. “Stale but serviceable.” He flicked the Zippo. Smoke rose to the ceiling. “What about the prints on the wax paper?”
“Most were too smudged to be of any value. There’s a thumbprint that is identifiable—Elmer the sandwich guy at Duke’s Deli. He served three years for drug possession; been clean for ten years.
“He’s a good guy.” Joe leaned back in the chair. “You got something else?”
“I’m getting heat to wrap this up. Swedge’s attorney packs a lot of weight. We’re not going to look for the identity of the sandwich eater.”
Joe knocked the cigarette inside a coffee can that he used as an ashtray. He rubbed the back of his head. “Why am I not surprised?” The phone rang. The caller ID said Pole Dancer. He pointed toward the door. “I’ve got to take this call.”
Chapter 3
W ESTFIELD , NJ A UGUST 2000
RESTING AGAINST AN OAK, Joe drained a can of Bud. It felt good to be outside like he used to do every Thursday, his day to hit the links from April through the first snowy winter day. Running a hand over the grip of the five-iron nestled in the manicured grass, Joe fought the urge to take a hack at the lone dandelion that managed to evade an army of landscapers on the payroll of Fairview Cemetery.
Taking a hit on his tenth Marlboro of the day, brought a strange pain underneath his breast bone like sandpaper on sandpaper. Elaine never lost an opportunity to predict that he would end up like Uncle Ernie on an oxygen tank after losing a lung. Maybe she was right when she suggested he purchase a plot—it was only a matter of time and he ought to choose the spot.
Joe coughed up a plug of nicotine infused mucous, spitting it toward a primrose patch. He checked his watch—ten o’clock. Dr. Headcase would be proud. He hadn’t seen the rising sun in a year. He’d been on the hill since eight for one reason: Until he saw the dirt flooding over Preston Swedge, it wasn’t over.
Ed Stoval said that Preston’s attorney came by to pick up one of Preston’s suits. The arrangements were private. Joe laughed at the idea—nothing was private. Catman Prather, an ex-con Joe helped get a job at Holly’s Home for Funerals, had given him the heads up the day before that Preston’s body was being released by the medical examiner. The burial had to be done on the quick, before eleven the next day. Catman didn’t know why. The caretaker at Fairview bitched and moaned he wouldn’t have the gravesite prepared. A promised C-note assured a backhoe would be digging by eight in the Oakdale section.
Joe reached into his goodie bag, retrieved an opened bag of Cheese Doodles, and popped a handful into his mouth. After muscling a canopy over the plot to keep the grieving family out of the blazing sun, two gravediggers tidied the work area, covering the excavated earth with a green tarpaulin. Joe snapped open the front page of
The Star Ledger
. The lead article—“Vice President Al Gore told reportersduring a press conference before boarding his plane at Edwards Air Force Base that he had not ruled out the possibility of including Ralph Nader or other third party candidates in the upcoming presidential debates.” Joe had one comment, “The schmucks deserve each
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