Sins of the Fathers by Jane Jensen

Author:Jane Jensen [Jensen, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: New Orleans (La.), Novelists; American, General, Fantasy, Voodooism, Fiction
ISBN: 9780451456076
Publisher: Penguin Books
Published: 1997-01-25T00:00:00+00:00

chipped sills. Someone had even opened one of them an inch or so, and the odor of death was only barely detectable clinging to a waft of air here and there, being otherwise dispelled by a fresh, if overly warm breeze.

He glanced back into the hallway and, seeing no one, stepped into the room. He began to go over the area quickly. Still hanging on a stand in the corner was a suit jacket that Gabriel searched. Nothing. He looked around the desk and chairs for signs of a briefcase. He didn't see one. He pushed back the now-empty desk chair, feeling a thrill of regret well up as he did so—his overly vivid imagination perfectly able to conjure up visions of Hartridge still sitting there.

Bending down, he looked under the desk, saw a wastebasket and pulled it out, went through its contents quickly. A couple of wadded-up tis-sues, used. A torn check. A couple of minimart receipts. Nothing.

He stood up. On the top of Hartridge's desk was a blotting pad, the kind that one could scribble notes on. Near the bottom middle edge was a stain. Blood. Gabriel squatted down to examine the stain. He called up his memory of

Hartridge, as he'd first found him. Yes. The bloodstain would have been exactly under his head.

It probably came from his mouth. Gabriel scanned the pad for other marks, but there were none.

None. That was odd, wasn't it? When he'd vis-

ited Hartridge that first day the blotter had been covered with writing. Hadn't it? He wracked his

brain, cursed his poor observation habits.

Hartridge had taken the v£ve, put it on his desk...

Yes, Gabriel was sure there'd been writing on the blotter. The kind of notes one takes when there's a phone nearby, as there was. Had there been writing on the pad this morning? He tried to recall, but all he could see was Hartridge's head, leaning forward, then staring up at the ceiling when

Gabriel had pushed him back in his chair. Gabriel didn't think he'd even looked at the desk after that.

Some investigator!

Frustrated, he examined the blotter again. It was the notepad type, the type where one could rip off the top sheet and start anew. This, apparently, had recently been done, since the blood-

stain was the only mark on the top sheet.

Would it be so very remarkable if Hartridge had freshened his desk the very day of his death?

Gabriel thought that it would. He remembered

Hartridge's excitement on the phone. That was not the tone of a man thinking about housekeeping.

He bent and examined the pad again. The bloodstain was a dot that blurred at the edges, veining into the newsprint-quality paper. He pulled the top page up and looked underneath.

There, on the next page, was the same stain, only a little bit smaller. He felt the smaller stain, then put the page down and felt the stain on the top page with a none-too-eager finger. It didn't have a film on top, but felt blotted, like the stain beneath.

Either the stain on top had sunk completely into the paper or.

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