Free Whisper Death by John Lawrence Reynolds Page A

when he emerged, a towel at his face.
    â€œLet’s get it over with,” Innes said.
    McGuire tossed the towel onto the nearest bed. “Ralph,” he began. But when the other man turned to look at him coldly, McGuire waved the thought away. “Never mind,” he said, pulling a set of handcuffs from his bag and striding for the door.
    I’m not after your woman, McGuire had wanted to say. And I’m not trying to run things on my own either. I just want to get the job done the only way I know how. Which, unfortunately, is either with Ollie Schantz, or with nobody.
    The documents were waiting when McGuire and Innes returned to the Palm Springs Police Station. An overweight sergeant inspected the ID provided by McGuire and Innes, watched as they signed a form accepting temporary responsibility for Bunker James Crawford and directed them to drive around to the rear of the building.
    Within minutes, Bunker Crawford emerged between the same two officers who had escorted him to the interrogation room. McGuire ordered the handcuffs removed, then slipped one end of his cuffs over Crawford’s right wrist and the other over his own left wrist.
    â€œLet’s go have a beer, Bunker,” he said, leading the prisoner towards their rented car. “You drive, Ralph.”
    Emerging at the south end of Palm Canyon Drive, they saw the oversized neon sign of the motel glowing in the early dusk. None of the men spoke during the journey. Crawford sat as far from McGuire as the handcuffs would allow and stared out the window, but he was noticeably less tense, relieved to be leaving the police station. Innes drove slowly, like a taxi driver following a boring and familiar route.
    At the motel, Innes pulled into the parking lot and opened the car door for McGuire and Crawford. The restaurant was now crowded with diners who barely noticed the three men approaching along the flagstone walk, about to step into the orange pool of light spilling from the motel’s neon sign. In the shade of early evening, none of the diners could see the handcuffs linking the quiet detective and his slightly bewildered prisoner.
    The departure of the sun left behind a tropical softness in the dusk air that slowed pulses and perceptions. McGuire recognized it from his months in the Bahamas. There was no need to rush, no need for excess activity. All would unfold in its own time. You learn that in the tropics. McGuire had learned it, and he had almost learned to apply it. The softness of the air was therapeutic and he was thinking of music as he walked stride for stride with his prisoner, Innes a step behind.
    Crawford grunted, the first sound he had made since leaving the police station. The man’s knees collapsed and he seemed to be stumbling, saying something as he fell, almost apologizing.
    The music in McGuire’s head, harmony and melody, became sharp and slashing, music no longer.
    Something flew by McGuire’s ear, catching the light from the neon sign as it passed. A small stone. Children throwing small stones?
    There was a wetness on McGuire’s face. Too late, his instincts, riding the softness of the air and the melody in his mind, began to rouse themselves.
    A woman seated at the restaurant window was watching them casually as McGuire began to fall, forced by Crawford’s weight. Her dinner partner had just made her laugh. Attractive, McGuire noticed. And slim. Like Janet.
    Innes cursed and shouted. Instinct told McGuire to slip his free hand inside his jacket, and for half a heartbeat he searched for a weapon that wasn’t there.
    The second shot struck Innes and he shouted again, one arm flailing the air, the other trying to yank his revolver from its holster.
    Crawford was still falling against McGuire and McGuire’s hand was still inside his jacket, clawing across his chest for a phantom shoulder holster. The prisoner’s weight shoved McGuire off balance and blocked his view of