The Second Mystery Megapack. Mack Reynolds

Hair and fingerprints matched the victim’s fiancé, her sister, and some unidentifieds.” She shoved her plate in my direction. “Jeez, Mikey, you do anything but eat?”

      “Not much.” I shoveled the remaining apples into my mouth. “You find any evidence Sandra knew the victim?”

      “Not yet, but how else do you explain her blood at the scene?”

      “Don’t have all the facts yet. I’ll talk to the prosecutor once I know, but I need to figure a few things out first. Like how her DNA came to be on file.”

      “Huh?” She flipped through the case notes. “Must have been arrested for something big.”

      “Her only arrest was during a protest march. Trespassing and assault. The charges didn’t stick.” I tapped my fork against the edge of her plate.

      “That right? Don’t usually collect DNA for something like that in the District.”

      “She was in Virginia.”

      Jules nodded. “Makes sense. They collect a cheek swab for certain crimes. Assault fits.”

      “Can I keep the file?”

      “Yeah, but you owe me one. You have no idea what I had to do to get a copy.”

      “Slick Danny said I owe him, too. But Jules, how much? I don’t have a lot of money.”

      She reached over and ruffled my hair. “Just don’t change. Okay, Mikey?”

      * * * *

      Thursday, 11:29 P.M.

      Pictures of the scene showed Leslie Galt. She looked asleep, except for the bruising around her mouth and the stiffness of her posture. According to the medical examiner’s report, someone had sat on her chest and pinned her arms. Bruising snaked down both arms where the perpetrator had knelt. No indication she’d been unconscious before the pillow was applied. Not a quick way to die. And Galt was no small woman. She’d have put up a fight. She had to outweigh Sandra Montebella by fifty pounds.

      The ME’s evaluation said broken capillaries in the eyes showed the characteristic petechial hemorrhaging consistent with death by smothering. Fibers found in the victim’s mouth and throat matched the pillow lying next to the body. The homicide occurred somewhere between 10 P.M. and midnight.

      Poring over photocopied pictures, I studied Galt’s place for any connections the police might have missed. Galt lived in Georgetown, and Sandra had worn a Georgetown University sweatshirt. No sign from the pictures that Galt was a Hoyas fan.

      I squinted over and over at the grainy police photos, finally focusing on a close-up of a shelf of photographs. I used a magnifying glass to get a better view. Most were typical family and friend shots, but one picture stood out. Galt crossing the finish line of some kind of walk, her arms around a man. Though I couldn’t see all of her T-shirt, the Leukemia Society’s logo—a drop of blood inside a large circle—was clearly visible. So, she’d walked for a cure. Could Montebella have met Galt during one of these events? Did I even think either of the Montebellas had anything to do with Galt’s murder?

      * * * *

      Friday, 7:22 A.M.

      “Cripes, Michael, why can’t you let this go? At this rate, you’ll be covering my shifts for a month.” Slick Danny stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You knock.”

      I did. After a moment, a large, red-faced man yanked open the door, a bowl of cereal in one hand. Brian Freedmont, Leslie Galt’s fiancé, frowned. “Can I help you?”

      I nudged Slick Danny, who sighed and pulled his hands from his pockets. “Sorry to bother you at such an ungodly hour, Mr. Freedmont, but we’re investigatin’ the death of your fiancée and we’d like to ask you some questions if you have time.” He gave his most officious smile, handed Freedmont a card.

      “You’re not with the police?” Freedmont ran his fingers through thinning hair. “I’ve already told them everything I know.”

      “May we come in, sir?” Slick Danny looked over Freedmont’s shoulder into the condo. “We’re helping the police. Followin’ up.”

      Sometimes I think my partner lied just to lie. But he gets a lot of information, and he’d told me to keep quiet.

      Freedmont’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, sure. Don’t see how I can help, though. Man, I don’t know why that woman hurt Leslie.”

      Inside, we took seats on a creaky, blue leather couch. Freedmont sunk into a matching armchair, set his cereal bowl on a side table. He looked at my partner.

      “Got a cigarette?”

      Slick Danny pulled out his pack and monogrammed lighter and slid a cigarette in Freedmont’s direction. Took one for himself, too.

      “Don’t smoke?” Freedmont lit up, turning his attention to me. “Thought all PIs smoked.”

      “He doesn’t drink neither. Gives us all a bad name,” Slick Danny said.

      “Smoking’s bad for you,” I said.

      Freedmont laughed, but it didn’t sound happy. “Lots of things are bad for you.” He took a long draw from his cigarette. “Gave cancer sticks up years ago. Things change.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke in my direction. “What is it you want to know?”

      “Did Ms. Galt know the Montebellas?” Slick Danny drew his attention back.

      “As I told the police, not to my knowledge. She’d never mentioned either of them.” Freedmont looked down at his shoes.

      “No ideas why someone would kill her?”

      He shrugged. “Don’t know.” He stubbed out the cigarette in his cereal.

      “You were gonna get married?” Slick Danny leaned forward, making eye contact with Freedmont and letting his mouth droop. What he calls his compassionate face. Makes him look like a basset hound, but it usually works, and it did this time, too.

      “Next year. We’d been together four years. It was time, you know? She didn’t want to live together until we got hitched. I respected that. If I’d only been there that night…”

      Slick Danny questioned the fiancé for a while longer. Twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds to be exact. As we stood to leave, I elbowed Slick Danny. He rolled his eyes.

      “Mr. Freedmont, was Ms. Galt a Hoyas fan?”

      Freedmont’s eyes narrowed and he paused before answering. “No, why?”

      “Just wondered, what with her living in Georgetown and all.” He rocked back on his heels. “Was she much of an athlete?”

      “Athlete?”

      “Yessir, an athlete. We noticed one of the photographs on her shelf showed her at the finish line of a race. Thought maybe—”

      “Oh, that. No, it was a walk for the Leukemia Society. We’re both leukemia survivors. Were, I mean.” He looked down at his hands.

      Slick Danny offered him another cigarette.

      Freedmont pocketed it. “Hers was already in remission when we met, but at the time mine looked bad. Been cancer-free for three years now. Reason I don’t normally smoke.” He shrugged. “She went through it all with me. Don’t think I would have lived if she hadn’t been there.” Clearing his throat, Freedmont led us to the door.

      * * * *

      Friday, 9:00 A.M.

      Back at work, I pulled the Montebella file. I dug out Sandra’s datebook and scanned the entries.

      Slick Danny looked up from a Sudoku he’d been working for a while. “Michael, what are you doin’ now? We have that new case to work on.” He grimaced.

      “Yeah, I know.” Another infidelity investigation.