The Green Trap Read Online Free Page B

federal agent, for god’s sake. Don’t get paranoid.
    Â 
    T hey stayed with Irene all afternoon. She had already contacted the local funeral parlor and Cochrane phoned the director to talk about the arrangements. Mike’s body had just been released from the police morgue, the man explained in sibilant whispers: they had performed an autopsy,standard practice in homicides. The funeral was scheduled for tomorrow, Tuesday.
    â€œTomorrow?” Cochrane asked, surprised. “What about the wake?”
    â€œMrs. Cochrane said she didn’t desire to have a viewing.”
    â€œWait a minute,” Cochrane said. Then, placing his palm over the phone, he called to his sister-in-law across the living room. “No wake?”
    Irene shook her head. “The sooner this is over with, the better.”
    â€œBut won’t his friends—”
    â€œHis friends are mostly from the lab. They’re not the type to spend an evening pretending to be sad.”
    Cochrane almost flinched from the acid in her tone, the unforgiving expression on her face. He told the funeral director to go ahead with his plans for tomorrow, then hung up the phone.
    When they had finished the sandwiches Irene had made and she was carrying their lunch trays back to the kitchen, Sandoval leaned close and whispered, “Can you get her to let you look at his computer?”
    Irene came back into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and sat on the sofa beside him.
    Feeling awkward, Cochrane asked, “Could I go up to his office, Irene? There might be something to give us a lead on who killed Mike.”
    â€œThe police went through the whole house,” Irene replied. “I barely got things back in order before you arrived.”
    â€œDid they find anything?” Sandoval asked.
    Irene stared at her coldly. “If they did, they didn’t tell me.” She turned back to Cochrane. “Come on, Paul, I’ll take you up there.”
    Sandoval caught the definite emphasis on
you.
“I can wait down here,” she said compliantly.
    Following Irene up the stairs, Cochrane could feel the hostility radiating from his sister-in-law. Why? he asked himself.
    Irene led him down the hall and opened the door to Mike’s study. It was a small room that would have been a nursery or a child’s bedroom in another home. Two walls were lined with bookshelves and there was a handsome dark walnut desk placed at an angle, with the room’s two windows behind it and a pair of bottle-green leather armchairs in front of it. Except for a telephone, the desk was bare. A flat-screen TV was mounted on the fourth wall, opposite the desk.
    A movie set, Cochrane immediately thought. Just like Mike. He created a make-believe office for himself. He didn’t do any work here. He couldn’t. This is where he got away from everything, everybody—including his wife.
    â€œDidn’t he have a computer here?” he asked.
    â€œHe used a laptop. Took it to work with him,” said Irene.
    Cochrane nodded, thinking, Maybe I should phone that detective and ask him about the laptop.
    Irene closed the door softly, then leaned against it, partially obscuring a poster that Mike had tacked up on the back of the door: a photograph of a balding, smiling man sitting by a window. Across the top of the poster, in handwriting, was scrawled,
Melvin Calvin, 1911–1997.
    â€œWhy’d you bring her?” Irene hissed, her voice low, venomous.
    Cochrane blinked at her. “She’s… we’re friends.”
    â€œFriends.”
    â€œIt’s not really serious,” Cochrane said, almost like an apology.
    Irene softened. She put both her hands on Cochrane’s shoulders, leaned her head against his chest.
    â€œOh, Paul. I shouldn’t… I mean… she just took me by surprise. I never expected you to…” Her voice trailed off.
    â€œYou never expected me to have a good-looking