Free Silent Kills by C.E. Lawrence Page A

Ivana Jankovic and her staff of mole people. He couldn’t imagine any of them leaking information to the press. And then the thought in the back of his mind sprang to the foreground.
    Kathy must have noticed the look on his face, because she nudged his arm. “What is it? Do you know who did it?”
    “No,” he said, “but I have a very good suspect.”
    He wished he had never had the thought. And he would have to think very hard about telling his old friend Chuck Morton that the leak might have come from his own wife.
    Behind them, on Edgar Allan Poe Street, a garbage truck ground to a halt, its brakes howling like a pack of lost and lonely wolves.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    Davey smelled the girl before he saw her. He sensed her presence. A woman like her trailed a bouquet of innocence, of longing and desire, sexuality and virginity, all tumbling into a heady fragrance he found irresistible. He followed her like a bird dog, tracking her scent in the air. Stepping carefully so as to not soil his new Nikes, he came around the other side of the bushes in Van Cortlandt Park, sniffing the breeze—and there she was. A slim little thing, she was power walking, her blond ponytail swinging, with that little derriere of hers poking out with every step—one, two , one two , in a foxtrot of allure. But it was the red sweatpants that sealed the deal. Red was his color. It had to be an omen.
    He calculated how fast he could catch up to her without having to sprint. Plenty of runners were zipping past her. It was a sunny Saturday morning, and the park was full of people. He stepped out onto the path and jogged slowly. There was no hurry. He could stay behind her for a while if he ran slowly enough, not attracting any attention, and then ...
    After about a quarter of a mile he increased his speed and sprinted past her, only to fall almost in front of her, clutching his ankle. She nearly fell on top of him, and had to jump to the side to miss tripping over him.
    He rolled onto his side, holding his leg and groaning. “Oh—o-o-o-h!”
    She bent down over him, sweat dripping from her forehead onto his. He managed to catch a droplet with his tongue. It tasted salty and sweet.
    “Are you okay?” Her face was crinkled in concern. His stomach went hollow at the sight: she was worried about him. A pretty woman was worried—about him.
    He heard his mother’s voice in his head. “Davey? Davey! Don’t make so much noise—your sister is sleeping. Davey! Try not to step so loudly on the stairs—you’ll wake up your sister.”
    He shook himself back to the present. He gazed up at the girl, his eyes full of pain and gratitude. “It’s my ankle—sometimes it gives out on me. It’s an old injury—from the Gulf War,” he added. He felt a tingle of excitement in his bowels at this last bit of improvised lying. What woman could resist a wounded soldier?
    “You want some help?” she asked, her eyes wide and blue as cornflowers.
    “I-if you could just help me to that bench,” he said.
    “Sure,” she said, offering her hand. Her skin smelled like oranges, and her hand was soft as the kiss of a flower petal.
    “I’m Davey,” he said, giving her his trademark lopsided smile.
    “I’m Liza,” she said.
    “Nice to meet you, Liza.”
    He had her—or he would have her soon enough. The rest was child’s play.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    The route to Dr. Williams’s office was so familiar sometimes Lee left his apartment and found himself in her waiting room with no memory of how he got there. He had weathered the worst of his depression lying on her forest-green couch, staring at the bookshelf with its African sculptures and pottery.
    Even now those days were becoming more dreamlike in his memory. Though he still remembered afternoons when he could only lie in bed gritting his teeth against the all-enveloping agony, waiting, praying for sleep to slip in and ferry him away into soft oblivion, the intensity of it was fading. In those days, he