Free The Hundredth Man by Jack Kerley

ambulance. A news van did a U and pulled to the curb. Neighbors with somber faces milled on the sidewalk. Traffic thickened, drivers drawn like moths to the flashing lights and activity. A patrolman in the street waved his arms andbawled, “Move on, folks, move on.” I saw Harry and pulled up on the curb behind him.
    â€œWeasels ’R’ Us around?” I asked.
    Harry shook his head. “Squill’s been at his brother’s condo in Pensacola. On his way.”
    Pensacola was at least ninety minutes away. Given time elapsed, we had maybe a half hour without him.
    â€œLet’s hit it while we can, bro,” I said. We walked onto a large front porch. Leaning against a white column was Detective Sergeant Warren Blasingame from District Three, who—since we were in D-3—had initial jurisdiction. Blasingame was sucking a cigarette and staring at the treetops.
    â€œWhat’s happening inside, Warren?” Harry asked.
    Blasingame drew a finger across his Adam’s apple. “That’s all I know.”
    â€œYou haven’t been inside?”
    â€œJust ME folk, scene techs, and Hargreaves. She took the call,” Blasingame drawled, spitting onto the lawn. “My guys ain’t supposed to go in till Squill gets here. Neither are you, probably, no matter what Piss-it rules say about you being in charge.”
    â€œDidn’t hear nothing about that,” Harry said as our footsteps thumped across the porch.
    Words scripted around a logo on the door: Deschamps Design Services. A small sign below the doorbell advised, PLEASE RING TO ENTER . A decal on the glass said PROTECTED BY JENKINS SECURITY SYSTEMS . While the place wasn’t the Bastille, neither was it open-door policy. Directly inside was a small pastel-hued reception area that screamed Designer at Work: Chagall-hued abstracts spotlit by track lighting; a puffy blue-leather couch; a frame-and-fabric chair more like a kite than a sitting device. One wall held framed awards for best this and that in design. The place had a subtle astringent smell, like disinfectant, or strong cleanser.
    â€œCould chill beer in here,” Harry said, cinching his tie. We walked a short hall. I heard a muffled sob from a room to the left and gently opened the door. A slender woman sat at a small conference tablewith patrol officer Sally Hargreaves. Sal had been first on the scene. She was talking softly with her hand over the woman’s wrist. Sal saw me and came to the door.
    â€œCheryl Knotts, victim’s fiancée,” she whispered. “Flight attendant out for three days. She got here fifty minutes ago to find one Peter Edgar Deschamps dead in his studio.”
    â€œImpression?” I asked, knowing Sal’s got the magic.
    â€œShe had nothing to do with it, I’d bet the farm on that. She’s devastated.”
    By magic I mean Sal has that rare sense letting her read people fast and dead on. All cops grow the ability to detect bullshit better than your average citizen, but some are prodigies, polygraphic Mozarts. On Sal’s take alone I pretty much X’d out the fiancée as a suspect.
    â€œGet her to answer some questions in a few?” I asked.
    Sally nodded, touched my arm. “Walk light if you can.”
    Sally’s got a hint of wet in her eyes; the magic has its price. I kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Did I tell you I dreamed about you last week?” I said. “I was a nurse and you were a Viking. . . .”
    Sal smiled for the first time and pushed me down the hall. “Go take care of Harry before he does something weird,” she said.
    The victim was on his back next to a drawing board. Beside the board was a desk with a Mac, and a monitor with a screen larger than the one on my TV. The man’s garb was white-collar casual: blue Oxford-cloth shirt, pressed khakis, webbed belt, brown loafers. The deceased was solidly built—not a hardcore gym