Dead Weight

Начало книги

The air conditioning in car 310 worked so well that my knees ached from the arctic blast out of the vents. The rest of me simmered. The tinted windows were marginal help as the afternoon July sun baked the car’s paint, the vinyl inside, and me.

I had tried opening all four windows, but the effect was like putting a fan inside an oven that was set to broil and then standing in front of the stove’s open door. It would have been a good afternoon to sit in my office and work on the budget. I had returned from lunch with exactly that plan when I found the Post-it on my door from Gayle Torrez, our chief dispatcher and wife of Undersheriff Robert Torrez.

I held the note out at arm’s length so I could read Gayle’s neat, precise printing. The message was clear enough: Carla Champlin asked that you stop by her house this afternoon. There wasn’t much there that needed clarification, but a dodge was still worth trying. I walked the half-dozen steps that would put me within easy talking distance of where Gayle sat by the dispatch console.

Читать дальше →