A Matter of Life and Death by Phillip Margolin (ereader with dictionary TXT) 📕

the glow cast by lights that bathed parts of the street in weak light. The driver pointed at a large Tudor two lots down.

“That’s the house. There’s no one home, and the alarm’s off. The safe is in the living room on the ground floor behind a seascape on the wall across from the entrance to the room.” He handed a slip of paper to Joe. “This is the combination to the safe. Memorize it.”

Joe did as he was told, and the giant crumpled the paper and put it in his pocket.

“There are jewels in the safe. Bring them to me. If there’s cash, you can keep it as a tip. Get in, get out. I’ll be waiting.”

“I don’t have gloves,” Joe said.

“Don’t worry about it. Just get me what I want.”

Joe had a million questions, but he knew he would get zero answers, so he pulled up his hood and sprinted for the house, trying hard to keep out of the light. There was a break in the high hedge that hid the Tudor from the street. As Joe ran up the brick path to the front door, he looked for lights behind the windows and didn’t see any.

Joe ducked under the portico that shielded the front door from the downpour. He was breathing hard, and he felt shaky. “It’s nerves, just like before a fight,” he told himself and took deep, slow breaths. When he was calmer, he slipped the edge of his jacket over his hand and opened the door slowly, half expecting an alarm to sound. When none did, Joe took another deep breath and walked into a large entryway tiled in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern. A staircase wound up to the second floor. The darkened entrance to a living room was off to the right.

Joe listened for any indication that someone was home. All he heard was his own labored breathing. “Gotta go,” he whispered as he started toward the living room. He was almost to it when something caught his eye. He took a step and squinted. It looked like a foot. Joe stopped and stared. Shadows cloaked a body. As his eyes adapted to the dark, a leg and the bottom of a bathrobe materialized. Joe hesitated, terrified of what he knew he was going to see. Then he gathered himself and flipped on the light.

A woman was sprawled on a Persian carpet that was discolored by blood and spatter from the gashes in her battered face. Joe jumped back, appalled by the carnage, and placed his hand against the wall to prop himself up. It looked like someone had used their fists to beat the woman’s face to a pulp.

Joe panicked. He ran from the living room, threw open the front door, and raced into the night. When he reached the street, he looked for his ride, but the car wasn’t there. Joe had never been this scared. That’s when he remembered that his prints would be on the light switch and the wall where he had placed his palm. The prints were near the body. He started to go back to the house when a car turned into the street and the headlights illuminated his face. The car stopped, and Joe froze in the glare. Then he threw up an arm to shield his face and raced away from the car. He cut across a lawn and through a gap between two houses. A narrow lane led into woods.

Joe tripped over a root and fell before bouncing to his feet. He had no idea where he was or how to get out of the woods. All he knew was that his freedom depended on getting as far from the body in the living room as he could.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hennessey’s racing wiper blades were only giving him brief openings in the sheets of rain that smashed into his windshield. Even his high beams weren’t much help.

“Turn here,” Carasco said.

When Hennessey rounded the corner, he saw a man standing in the street. Hennessey stomped on the brakes. When the high beams hit him, the man froze. Then he threw an arm across his face before racing away from the car.

“Who was that?” Carasco shouted.

“I have no idea,” Ian said.

“It looked like he was coming from my house.”

Hennessey drove to the far end of the hedge and up to the garage. The only lights he could see were in a room at the front of the house. Hennessey followed the judge to the front door. It was wide open, and the wind was blowing rain into the entryway. Carasco stepped inside and flipped a switch. The light from a large crystal chandelier illuminated the foyer.

“What’s that?” Hennessey said, pointing toward the living room.

Carasco turned. Then he took a few tentative steps before stopping at the entrance to the living room. Hennessey looked over the judge’s shoulder. He tried to understand what he was seeing. When the full horror registered, Hennessey turned away and put his hand over his mouth, praying that he would keep down his dinner.

The judge backed out of the living room. He took Hennessey’s arm and led him to the other side of the entryway.

“Are you okay?” Carasco asked.

“Hell no,” Hennessey managed.

“Well, pull yourself together. I’m going to call the police. When they get here, they’re going to talk to us. It may not come up, but if they ask why we were together tonight, you can’t mention Stacey and the warrants. That’s for your own protection. Do you understand me?”

Hennessey nodded.

“If they ask, tell them that I’ve been mentoring you and you were asking me to tell you what you did right and wrong in the case you had with Lockwood.”

“Okay.”

Carasco pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. Hennessey wondered how Carasco could be so calm moments after seeing the hideous way his wife had been murdered.

Detectives Carrie Anders and Roger Dillon were next up in the homicide rotation, so they donned their rain gear,