Free A Thorn Among the Lilies by Michael Hiebert Page A

company since the early 1950s.
    The report explained that the Beretta Jetfire is a simple blowback pistol with a single-action trigger mechanism and tip-up barrel. The frame is made out of aluminum alloy; the slide and barrel are carbon steel. Early models did not have a safety lever, employing a half-cock notch on the hammer instead.
    The .22 caliber magazine has an eight-round capacity; nine if the first round is chambered. Because the pistol lacks a shell extractor, it relies instead on blowback pressure to clear shell casings. Misfires are easily removed manually by tipping up the barrel and prying them out.
    The weapon was intended to be simple and reliable and fit in a pocket. It’s a semiautomatic pistol, building on a long line of small compact pistols manufactured by Beretta for self-defense.
    â€œNot for shooting directly into the temple of women bound up with their eyes stitched up,” Leah mused aloud.
    The report went on to say that the .22 short calibers it takes are not very powerful, but when well-placed can be lethal. The accuracy of the pistol is adequate enough, but only for short ranges.
    Leah couldn’t figure out why the killer would use such a gun when there were so many other more obvious choices around. Did he have sentimental ties to it? Had he used it before? Was this not his first murder?
    If this wasn’t his first murder, she might be able to track down others. But not using the same MO. At least not in Alvin. She’d remember another victim with those eyes. As it was, she’d be finding herself remembering these ones for the rest of her life.
    â€œJudging from the slug we found in the victim’s skull, our shooter is using original bullets, or at least very old ones. I’d date the one I found back to the early fifties, possibly as late as the midsixties,” Norman, the medical examiner, said to Leah.
    Leah couldn’t help her mind from going back to what the psychic said.
    A maniac tailor . . . Someone dangerous . . . Welcome to Gray . . . something . Again, it certainly wasn’t Welcome to Alvin.
    Like everything else, forensics was unable to detect any latent fingerprints on the slug or anywhere on the body. The crime lab in Mobile came up with the same big ball of nothing. This killer was pretty organized. So organized, it was starting to piss Leah off.
    And outside, the rain continued to fall.

C HAPTER 11
    L eah decided to check the one place she figured she might find people who knew Mercy Jo: the Six-Gun Saloon on the western outskirts of Alvin. It was just over the city limits and sort of corralled the city’s slum area, with Oakdale Road taking up the other side on an angle.
    The rain had picked up as Leah walked into the establishment that, as the name gave away, was a country bar. At least that was the idea. The floor was covered in peanuts and peanut shells. The bar was circular and in the center of the room. A dance floor wrapped around one side with booths along the edge of the place. Tables filled the other side. By the looks of things, the bar did a pretty good business. Chairs at the bar itself were mostly filled with women, most alone, some with guys who looked like they were on the prowl.
    Leah pushed her way through to the barmaid, who wore a tag that said M ARGARET . “Hi, Margaret,” Leah said, raising her voice above “Crazy” by Patsy Cline. “My name is Leah Teal. I’m the police detective here in Alvin.”
    Margaret stopped wiping a glass and gave Leah the once-over. Margaret was a large black woman who wore a dress that had the look of her being poured into a glass and she’d forgotten to say when. She had very large breasts, black hair to her shoulders, and enough makeup for three people. Her fingernails were very long and very pink. So were her lips. Pink, that is. Not so much long.
    â€œWhat can you possibly want with me?” she asked.
    â€œFound a body washed up on Willett Lake. Have a