Free HardScape by Justin Scott Page A

know.”
    I had to tell her that her husband knew already, but it would keep till morning.
    â€œWhy did they keep asking me why we took him inside?” She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “I told them it was my idea, by the way. I said you only helped, which was true. Why did they keep asking?”
    â€œIt has to do with their investigation. We didn’t follow their procedure, so they’re upset. Don’t worry about it.”
    â€œWhy did they test my hand?”
    â€œThey found a gun in the turret that had been fired.”
    â€œIs that what that test was?” Her eyes flashed. “Idiots. Jack and I were shooting last week.”
    â€œAnd they found a deer slug in the grass.”
    â€œMust have been a poacher. We caught one last month. And last night there was someone in the woods.”
    â€œDid you tell the cops?”
    â€œThey came out here. Shot a raccoon and said that was the prowler. …”
    â€œDo the police know who he is?”
    â€œOf course. I told them. What’s to hide? It’s all going to come out. There’s no way Jack’s going to believe Ron was here for any other reason than the very obvious.”
    â€œYou can’t tough it out?”
    â€œWhen you stop sleeping with your husband and one day his former partner turns up at your house while your husband’s in Washington, he’s going to get the picture.” She flopped back on the bed and covered her face with her hands.
    â€œFormer partner?” I echoed, surprised that Alex Rose, P.I., had neglected to mention this startling leg of their love triangle.
    â€œJack bought him out,” she muttered through her hands.
    As I recalled, Rose had admitted to me only that the Longs knew Ron well. Putting myself in his shoes, I thought, No, I probably wouldn’t have mentioned it either to anybody jerk enough to sneak videos of lovers making love.
    Rita was trembling. I said, “Would you like me to call anyone for you? A friend or someone?”
    â€œRon was my friend. He was my best friend. I told him everything. If I had a good day in my studio I’d call him up to tell him. If I had a lousy day in my studio I’d tell him. If Jack was driving me crazy I’d tell him. If I met someone nice, I’d call him up and tell him.…I was going to tell him I’d met you.…” She removed her hands from her eyes and seemed startled to see me. “What are you doing here?” Steve’s dope was really cooking now.
    â€œJust wanted to see if you were…if I could do anything.”
    â€œThanks, no. Nothing.”
    â€œSome tea? Coffee?”
    â€œNo…Tea. Yeah, tea might be a good idea. The doctor gave me this pill. My head is like oatmeal.”
    â€œI’ll make tea. Want to come with me?”
    She sat up, abruptly. “I’m going to call him.” She snatched up the phone, saw me staring, and said, as she dialed, “I’ll get Ron’s answering machine. His voice.”

Chapter 7
    Cigarette smoke hung thick downstairs. There were cops everywhere, in uniform and plainclothes, gawking at the skylit wood paneling, the furniture in the roped-off living room, and the lavish kitchen, which had clearly cost more to build than any public servant’s home. Country troopers tend to be the second sons of hard-working farmers, and I could only guess what was going through the minds of any who wandered into Rita’s studio and undraped her drawing of Ron naked with skull.
    â€œExcuse me.” I shouldered between two giants with their hats on, filled a kettle, and set it to boil on the eight-burner Garland range. There were matching Sub-Zero refrigerator-freezers. The first held beer and wine. I found milk in the second, along with some Saranwrapped pizza wedges, an open champagne bottle with a spoon in the neck, and a beautifully decorated plate of shrimp circling red and white sauces. Only a few shrimp