Free Speak the Dead by Grant McKenzie Page A

Aedan descended from the floor above where he had silently fled when the beefy cop arrived unexpectedly. Moving close, he pressed his left ear against Sally’s door.
    He could hear the television. Women arguing.
    He inhaled the air, catching a lingering scent of shampoo and soap.
    She was the one. She had to be.

15
    W ith a caffeine buzz from his morning Red Eye—two shots of tar-like espresso topped up with fresh brewed dark roast coffee—Jersey felt bright eyed and hopeful. His partner, however, was floating a dark cloud on his parade as they rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor of the Portland Justice Center.
    Located in the heart of downtown, the eighteen-story tower was home to not only the Portland Police Bureau, but also four courtrooms and the maximum-security Multnomah County Detention Center. For criminals, that meant the journey from being arrested to incarcerated was a short one.
    â€œI hate getting called into the boss’s office,” Amarela muttered. “Makes me feel like a rookie again.”
    â€œAh, the good old days,” said Jersey.
    â€œSpeak for yourself. Lecherous old men always wanting me to go undercover as a hooker or porn star? It was like walking naked through a safari park.”
    Jersey smiled. “Somehow I don’t see you as a victim.”
    â€œNo, but I had to crush a lot of nutsacks to get that message across.”
    â€œMen are pigs,” said Jersey.
    Amarela burst into laughter. “Amen.”
    â€œShouldn’t that be A-wo-men?”
    â€œDamn. When a woman gets elected Pope, she’ll need to fix that.”
    When the elevator door opened, the partners marched out with sober faces and made their way through a maze of desks to the lieutenant’s corner office.
    Lieutenant Noel Morrell steepled his hands as the two detectives entered his office. He still looked as crisp and fresh as he had at four that morning.
    â€œAh, detectives Castle and Valente,” he began. “Nice to see you finally got dressed, Detective Castle, although a dressier pair of pants, proper fitting shirt, and a decent pair of shoes wouldn’t go amiss.”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Jersey with an unconscious flexing of mouth muscle that hinted at a smile. “But apart from that?”
    â€œYou also need a haircut.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYou’ve been investigating this morning’s hit-and-run?”
    â€œWe have.”
    â€œAnd your progress?”
    â€œWell, as you know, I was first on the scene after the victim was struck and killed by her husband’s car. Detective Valente was on the scene for the recovery of the vehicle and its driver. It appears at this time that the driver committed suicide after killing his wife. However—”
    Lieutenant Morrell held up a hand.
    â€œI want to stop you there,” he said. “I have received an urgent request from the son that the bodies of his parents be immediately released to the funeral home. It seems his parents didn’t believe in embalming and the family wants an open coffin, so they need to hold the service as quickly as possible.” He flattened his hands on the desk. “The bottom line is this; do you have any evidence that this is anything other than a domestic murder-suicide?”
    â€œEvidence? No,” said Jersey, “but it feels wrong. The location, timing, and choice of weapon don’t add up.”
    â€œI agree,” said Amarela. “There’s more to this than it appears.”
    â€œBut you have no evidence to suggest third-party involvement?”
    Jersey shook his head. “Not at this time, but—”
    â€œI’m releasing the bodies to the funeral home,” said Morrell. “The victims’ son is a close friend of the mayor’s son, and I can’t see any benefit to getting into an argument over religious rights and freedoms without something solid to back it up.”
    â€œBut,”