Dreams of the Dead by Perri O'Shaughnessy

Author:Perri O'Shaughnessy
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Exhumation, Women Lawyers, Legal, Fiction, Nina (Fictitious Character), Mystery Fiction, Reilly, Thrillers, Suspense, South Lake Tahoe (Calif.), General, Legal Stories
ISBN: 1416549730
Publisher: Gallery Books
Published: 2010-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

Monday afternoon Paul stopped for a triple espresso at the Java Hut and skimmed the police reports regarding his new case, hunting for a direction. He was boiling about Eric Brinkman, but the boiling didn’t seem to have much rational basis. It was the boiling of upper altitudes, cooler than it appeared. He had seen Brinkman’s examination of Nina after he sat down, and it had made him extremely angry, and that was that, nothing to be done about it, unless Brinkman laid a hand on her, in which case he would—

He went back to his reports: autopsy reports on the two women, photos—Brenda’s wound primitive-looking, as if an animal, not a knife, had done it.

The knife had been strongly wielded rather than efficiently wielded. The murder scene didn’t look like the preferred place of someone who had committed similar crimes. Too risky.

Paul could not work this the way a cop would; he had neither the time nor the resources to be systematic. He needed to hit hard at the spikes, the things that jumped out at him, things that might open up.

Johnny Castro spiked first. He had been both the husband and manager of Miss Cyndi Amore, aka Cyndi Backus.

At three o’clock in the afternoon, Paul set his GPS for the address, driving along the highway. Mist clouded the lake and the road, and he bypassed a fender bender and spinout that had landed an SUV upside down on a hillside. Why couldn’t people remember to put their lights on? Paul thought, rubbernecking to view the damage. Ah, nobody dead, only a few stunned-looking skiers talking with the cops, ambulances idling nearby. Traffic slowed, then narrowed to one lane, then a woman dressed in yellow plastic from head to toe waved him forward.

A small town a couple of miles away, south and adjacent to South Lake Tahoe, Meyers, with no town center and motley housing—cabins, trailers, and fanciful mountain homes jostling together in the forest—mostly lured people who preferred to live on the cheap or on the fringe.

Johnny Castro lived behind a larger home in an old cabin near Highway 50 as it headed out of town, deeper into California. The front porch had been boarded up into an inside room long ago. Fresh paint hadn’t touched the weathered wood for ages. Paul parked in the dirt driveway, examining the black slushpiles of snow here and there—the old brownish snowman down on its luck meant children.

Paul found Johnny home on a weekday afternoon. The door opened and the middle-aged widower/father came out, sporting an extra forty pounds and a tattoo collection that made his arm and chest look clothed. Paul checked for gang tattoos but saw mostly the skull, Bettie Page, and Virgin de Guadalupe type. Castro wore a small goatee; his hair was cropped so close he was almost bald. Heat surged out of the little house, hitting Paul like a slap in the face.

“Enjoyin’ staring at my house?” Castro said.

“John Castro?” Presenting him with his card, Paul explained his business.

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