The Turin Shroud Secret Read Online Free Page A

stands back in shock. ‘Jeez, Bloomingdales has less stock than this. I mean,
     how many clothes can one woman wear?’
    Nic turns his back on the expanse of dresses, tops, skirts and blouses. ‘I’m going down to the study. Writers are strange
     creatures. Let’s see what’s in her natural habitat.’
    Mitzi takes one last envious glance at the glamorous gowns then follows him. A forensic team and photographer are in the kitchen.
     There’s nothing to suggest a break-in before the cops forced their own entry. No jimmied frames, no drilled-out locks or broken
     glass. Maybe the killer wasn’t ever here.
    The study is even more of an indulgence than the upstairs dressing room. Ceiling to floor oak, a purpose-built desk, plush
     brown leather chair – antique by the look of it –shelves packed with every kind of reference book. Nic guesses Tamara was old school, the kind who only relied on published
     books rather than internet sources, the type who wanted substantial proof behind her work.
    It takes him a second to work out what’s missing. There’s a printer, scanner and a whole host of tidied cables and chargers.
    But no computer.
    That instinctive tingle that he felt grows a whole lot more as he pulls open a cupboard. No tower unit for a desktop PC either.
     Okay. Not so surprising, writers often favour laptops – they’re slimmer and better suited to jotting down weird and wonderful
     thoughts as they travel. But there are no spare cables or docking station. He searches more cupboards and finds installation
     disks and guarantees for an eleven-inch MacBook Air. Nice. Much cooler than the old Dell buckling the legs of a table in
his
apartment. But something’s still irking him.
    Writers back things up. Professional ones back everything up. All the time. On multiple sources.
    Nic searches but can’t even find a single USB stick, let alone anything heavyweight or professional like an Iomega or Tandberg.
    He’s been here. He’s cleaned her out.
    ‘Nic – come see this.’ Mitzi sounds more sad than excited.
    Whatever she’s found he knows he’s not going to like it. He leaves the acres of oak and makes his way into a pasture of thick,
     white living room carpet.
    ‘The cat’s dead.’ Her face just about betrays the fact shehad one as a childhood pet. ‘Been killed by the looks of it.’
    Tom Hix, a forty-year-old bearded CSI in a Tyvek suit holds the white Persian out at arm’s length. ‘Its neck’s been broken.
     There are ligature marks beneath the fur and its eyeballs are dilated. I’d say it’s been strangled with some kind of noose
     – maybe even swung around some.’
    Mitzi shakes her head. ‘Sick bastard.’
    ‘But an
interesting
sick bastard.’ Nic looks closer as Tom lowers it into a large paper bag. ‘There aren’t many people who carry rope with them
     and know how to kill with it.’
    The CSI labels the bag. ‘We’ll pass it to our forensic vet, he’s top notch. If there’s any trace evidence or offender DNA,
     he’ll find it and he’ll figure out exactly how it died.’
    Nic moves on and searches through a pile of mail, then checks a small cordless phone on a base by the window ledge. The display
     says there are fourteen missed messages. He lifts the silver phone from its cradle, examines the icons on the main body and
     finds the contacts book function. There are 306 entries, all listed surname first. He punches in Jacobs and it comes up with
     only one – Dylan. His eyes flash back to the mail stack and an envelope addressed to Mr D. and Mrs T. Jacobs. He picks it
     up and sees it’s been opened. Inside is a hard white card filled with flowery gold writing inviting them to a charity ball.
     Nic holds the phone and card aloft for Mitzi to see. ‘Looks like we’ve found Rock Lady’s hubby.’
    She drifts away from the CSI, the dead cat now forgotten. The husband of Tamara Jacobs is either her killer and knowsshe’s dead or his life is about to be ruined. ‘If