San Francisco Noir--Box Set by Tim Maleeny

Author:Tim Maleeny [Maleeny, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781781859087
Publisher: Head of Zeus

3

The dead man’s eyes stared accusingly at the two policemen. Strangulation had caused the eyes to bulge and turn outward, giving the illusion that the corpse was scowling at both men simultaneously, angry at being excluded from their conversation.

“Who did you say he was again?”

Vincent Mango looked almost as annoyed as the corpse, but anyone who knew him would swear that was his normal expression. Even with risers in the heels of his Italian loafers, his wiry frame stood just over five and a half feet tall, so he compensated by acting testy. His short black hair was slick above a high, pale forehead, and he was dressed impeccably, right down to the Glock on his right hip, his detective shield clipped on his left side so he’d look symmetrical.

“Real name was Otto Metzger. Most people called him Otto the Kraut, but never to his face.”

The voice that answered nearly rattled the windows. Beauregard Jones stood very still as he spoke, as if worried about crushing his diminutive partner. At six-five and almost 240 pounds, all he had to do was fall over. His face was a mahogany mask that would have been inscrutable if not for the eyes. Twenty years on the force had given him cop eyes that could go from open and friendly to flat and deadly in a heartbeat. He wore high-tops, jeans, and a black T-shirt with a weathered shoulder rig stretched tightly across his chest, holding a Springfield forty-five stainless. A sizable firearm, it looked like a toy against Beau’s massive frame.

“Otto was the man in the middle,” added Beau, as if that explained everything.

Vincent scratched his right ear. “Middle of what?”

Looking at the smaller man with a hint of amusement in his eyes, Beau leaned forward and pointed at the table in front of them. “Those are drugs, Vinnie—heroin, if you want to get specific.”

Vincent glanced at the worktable in front of them, taking note of the scarred Formica, the four steel legs running to the cracked and faded tile floor. Scattered across its surface was everything you needed to make a sandwich, including cold cuts, sausages, string, plastic—and Otto, his feet splayed and hanging off the edge.

He wore a butcher’s apron over brown canvas pants, his leather shoes stained from years of animal blood and worn from miles of pacing behind a deli counter. His hands were thick and coarse, the veins prominent even in death. But beyond those simple observations, it was impossible to tell what the man had resembled in life. Beneath the protruding eyes, his nose flared angrily, a last attempt to draw breath into failing lungs. His tongue jutted obscenely between cracked lips, a thin line of blood visible where he’d bitten down in agony. The right temple looked bruised, a purplish welt visible above the eye. Otto had not gone quietly, but to determine the cause of death you only had to look at his throat.

His neck looked raw where a coarse brown string cut across the Adam’s apple and disappeared where it broke the skin.

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