Free The Sleepless by Graham Masterton Page B

school, it had made him a target for merciless bullying and jokes. In his early years in the Boston police force, however, it had brought him respect, and assisted his promotion. He had been young, decisive and physically commanding. But in middle age, it had made him something of a dinosaur – easily picked out by aggressive young opponents both police and political, easily spotted by the press, and easily marked by Boston’s criminals. Kevin Cato, who ran one of the most profitable import/export rackets from Rockland to Marblehead and back again, called him ‘Giraffe’. 
    Sometimes, Megan teased him and called him Giraffe, too. Megan was his wife: Boston Irish, five-feet-four-and-a-half, little and dark and vivacious, despite her affliction. He never showed her that it worried him. But one day, somebody would say, ‘Get the Giraffe,’ and that would be the end of it. Squealing tyres on Haverhill and Causeway, or down by the Harbor; shots; and then nothing but cold concrete sidewalk; and encroaching darkness; and watching your life’s blood sliding away. 
    Thomas took a last tight drag at his cigarette and said, ‘Any identification? Pocketbook, credit cards, anything like that?’ 
    David shook his head. ‘Nothing at all. And I mean nothing at all. No clothing whatsoever, no jewellery, no cosmetics, no comb, no toothbrush, nothing. This girl was totally naked in every sense of the word.’ 
    ‘You’ve talked to the neighbours?’ 
    ‘Oh, for sure. The Dallens on this side and the Giffords on that.’ 
    ‘They never saw nothing. They never heard nothing.’ 
    David nodded. Byron Street was one of those streets where people came and went and minded their own business, where nobody would admit to domestic violence or shouting matches or scandal. The only time the residents of Byron Street ever called the police was when they needed a burglary report for insurance purposes; or if a noisy party was going on too late. 
    ‘Do you want to take a look?’ asked David. 
    ‘Oh ... sure,’ said Thomas. ‘Who called it in?’ 
    David flipped his notebook again. ‘Ms Anna Krasilovsky from the realty company. The tenants hadn’t paid rent for two successive months, so she came around to check. There was no response to the doorbell; and the phone was disconnected. So she used her passkey. She smelled a smell, and went upstairs, and there she was.’ 
    ‘You’ve talked to Ms – ?’ 
    ‘Krasilovsky, yes, for sure. She’s being treated for shock. But everything she says checks out.’ 
    ‘What do we know about the tenants?’ 
    ‘James T. Honeyman, DMD, MDS, dental surgeon; and Mrs Honeyman. Dr Honeyman apparently wanted the premises for an implant surgery practice.’ 
    ‘Where did they come from, originally?’ 
    ‘We’re still checking their background. But the realty company records show that their permanent home address is at the Hawk-Salt-Ash resort community in Plymouth, Vermont.’ 
    ‘Odd,’ said Thomas. ‘Who lives in Plymouth, Vermont, and sets up a practice in Boston?’ 
    ‘We should have a report back from Plymouth within the hour,’ David reassured him. ‘My guess is that it’s a bogus address. But, you know, we’re just making sure.’ 
    ‘Oh, you think that it’s a bogus address?’ Thomas asked, sarcastically. ‘Maybe you’ll make a detective yet.’ 
    He knew, however, that the grisliest moment had arrived; and had to be faced. Why he had decided on a career in homicide when he couldn’t even stand to look at a run-over deer on a rural highway, he could never explain. Perhaps he had imagined that it would be no more disturbing than Cluedo or reading a Sherlock Holmes story. He really couldn’t remember. But there were days when he came home from police headquarters and stood under the shower with his eyes tight shut for twenty minutes on end, trying to wash away the smell of death, and trying to forget the blind bloody writhing of maggots. 
    He followed David