The Murder Artist

Начало книги

Five hours of sleep. I rub my eyes, head out front, and bend down to extract my rolled-up copy of The Washington Post from beneath an azalea bush. I never know where I’m going to find the thing; whoever pitches it never got past T-ball.

“Good morning! Beautiful day in the neighborhood.” It’s Yasmin Siegel, my eighty-something neighbor from across the street, with her black Lab, Cookie.

“I guess.” I slide the paper out from its transparent plastic sleeve.

“Seriously, Alex, a day like this in Washington, D.C. ” She shakes her head in disbelief. “It’s a gift. End of May? You can get some real stinkers.” She points her finger at me. “You enjoy it, you and those boys.”

“I was hoping for rain,” I tell her, looking up at the cloudless blue sky.

“Ri-ight,” Yasmin chuckles. “O-kay, Cookie. I get the message.” She gives me a jaunty wave and heads toward the park.

Actually, I was hoping for rain. I check the weather map on the back of the Metro section, just in case.

Читать дальше →