Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire Read Online Free Page B

Howard coming. Did you look for footprints outside Stacy’s patio?”
    “Yes, we looked for footprints. We often do technical stuff like that here at the police department.”
    “And? Did you find any?”
    “As a matter of fact, we did. The gardener’s. One Chuy Sandoval, who at the time of the murder was home having dinner with his wife and four kids.”
    “What about the other neighbors? Did any of them hear anything unusual?”
    “Aside from Howard screaming, no.”
    Rea picked up a file from his desk.
    “Did you know your client has a history of mental illness?”
    Uh-oh.
    “He does?”
    He nodded, the same sure-of-himself grin on his face that Joey Ross had in the final round of our fifth grade spelling bee.
    “He’s been hospitalized twice.”
    “For what?”
    “Depression and anorexia.”
    “Anorexia?” I snorted. “Sounds like the mental history of a killer, all right.”
    “Well, I think he did it.” Rea lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke in my direction. “Unfortunately for Howard, I’m the cop on the case. And you’re not.”
    He smiled smugly. And suddenly I remembered the final round of the fifth grade spelling bee. It was Joey Ross’s turn. The word was “euphemistic.” And Joey spelled it with an “f.”
    For once in his life, Joey was wrong. Just as wrong, I was certain, as Detective Timothy Rea.

Chapter Five
    I left Detective Rea’s office in a pissy mood and headed back to the visitors’ room at the county jail.
    “What’s Stacy’s address?” I asked when Howard was once again seated across from me in his smudgy glass cage.
    “She lives in Westwood.” A flash of pain swept over his face. “I mean, she lived in Westwood. A place called Bentley Gardens.”
    “You remember the exact address?”
    “1622 Bentley. Why do you want to know?”
    “I want to pay a little visit,” I said, “to the scene of the crime.”
     
    Five minutes later, I was on the freeway, heading over to Westwood. I wanted to talk to Stacy’s neighbor in Apartment Seven, the lady who’d heard Howard screaming. If she heard Howard, maybe she’d heard something else, something that would point me in the direction of the true killer.
    Wait a minute, you’re probably asking yourself. I’m a freelance writer, right? So how come I was talking like V.I. Warshawski? That’s just what I was asking myself that day as I headed over to Stacy’s place. What on earth did I think I was doing? Surely, the police had already questioned everyone. If there were any pertinent facts to be discovered, they would have discovered them.
    Then I thought of Detective Rea, and that smug grin on his face, and I knew exactly why I was heading over to Westwood.
    Stacy lived on a leafy street a couple of miles from the UCLA campus. Bentley Gardens was a small but well-maintained building, with purple pansies bordering the patch of lawn out front.
    I parked my car and headed up a flagstone path to a security intercom. I checked out the building directory and found Apartment Seven. The name on the buzzer said “E. Zimmer.” I was just about to ring, when I suddenly wondered: What the heck was I going to say to E. Zimmer? “Hello, I’m a friend of the man who was arrested for killing your neighbor.” I don’t think so.
    I was standing there trying to figure out a plan of attack when I saw a Jeep pull into the building’s carport. A clean-cut guy in his thirties got out and started taking suitcases from the trunk of his car. I pretended to be looking for something in my purse as he came up the path. He smiled at me absently, then took out his keys and let himself in. I couldn’t help noticing his eyes, a beautiful Aidan Quinn blue.
    “Here, let me hold the door for you,” I said, as he juggled his suitcases.
    “Thanks.” He flashed me another smile, this one of slightly higher wattage than the first, and made his way in. Needless to say, I slipped in right behind him.
    Seven apartments surrounded a postage