Free Damage Control by Robert Dugoni

bars down the street. The guy says he assumed King and his pal were getting a couple of visitors for the evening and didn’t want to ‘tag-team them’ in the same room. His words, not mine.”
    “You want my two cents?” Murphy said. “King and his pal have a dispute over the money, and the guy shoots him. Bang.” He pointed at King and imitated the kick of a handgun with his hand. “Then the guy spooks and leaves behind some of the money and the watch and the bloody clothes to make us think King is the guy who killed and robbed James Hill.”
    Logan considered the theory. “I don’t know a lot of guys on the run to leave behind a wad of cash—or clothes that could implicate him in the murder.”
    “Shit, we ain’t talking about a fucking Ph.D. Ten bucks says he’s a loser like King. Only now he’s running scared because he killed someone and he ain’t thinking straight. ”
    “Detective?”
    All three detectives turned. One of the technicians stood between the two beds, near the headboards. When they approached, she pointed with a pen, indicating a bullet hole near a framed photograph of Mount Ranier. The hole was partially camouflaged by the mosaic pattern of the wallpaper. The technician pointed to a second dime-size hole several feet away. The bullet had nicked the edge of the picture frame before embedding in the wallboard. Judging by the size of the hole, it, too, had been either a 9mm slug or a .22.
    Logan pointed to King. “He never got the Falcon out of his pants, and the guy who shot him had to be standing near the front door. Not even a blind man could have missed this badly. Right, Nooch?”
    Nuchitelli looked up. “Not even a blind man,” she said.
    “Shit, you should be a detective,” Murphy added.
    “Please, not with the money my parents spent on my education.”
    Logan suppressed a laugh, turned to consider the trajectory that would have been necessary for the bullets to embed in the wall, and deduced the shots had to come from the adjacent room.
    “King’s pal was in there,” Hallock said, noting his gaze. “That’s why they got the second room; he was supposed to be King’s backup.”
    “So whoever shot King then likely kicked in the door to go after him,” Logan said.
    “What are you saying?” Murphy asked.
    Logan walked back into the adjoining room, Hallock and Murphy in tow. “I’m saying I think King’s pal was inside this room and is either a terrible aim or was just firing at random, panicked.” He faced the damaged door frame, stepped back, and bumped up against the bathroom doorjamb. Turning around, he noticed an open window, walked in, and leaned over the tub to look out the window on a dirt lot, careful not to touch the sill. It was a long fall, but not too long if someone was shooting at you. He walked back into the room where King’s body lay. Nuchitelli stood and removed her gloves. Two men were preparing to put the body in a yellow body bag and zip it closed.
    “Dust that ledge for prints and send them over along with prints from the victim. I want to have them compared with any prints found in James Hill’s house.” Logan turned to Murphy and Hallock. “I’m meeting Hill’s sister at his house tomorrow. We were going to go over items that might have been stolen. That doesn’t appear to be too urgent anymore.” Logan looked at his watch and let out a tired sigh. Morning would come too early. “I’ll ask her about the watch and if her brother would have much cash in the house. If anything else is missing we’ll get out a list to the local pawn shops.”
    “Shit, like that will do any fucking good with those thieves.” Murphy grinned. “We solved your murder, Logan. Even bagged him for you.”
    Logan stared at Laurence King’s body, now encased in the yellow bag, and sucked in air through the small gap between his two front teeth. He didn’t think so.

12
    D ANA COUNTED THE panels on the front door of her brother’s home. Twenty-four: four