The Art of Murder by Fred Lichtenberg

Author:Fred Lichtenberg [Lichtenberg, Fred]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Police Procedural, Hard-Boiled, Private Investigators, General
ISBN: 9781644570517
Google: 0zieDwAAQBAJ
Goodreads: 47511973
Publisher: ePublishing Works!
Published: 2019-08-06T00:00:00+00:00

The stationhouse is generally quiet this time of the day, but when I return from the lovely Olivia Patterson I find Kate, Minnie Taylor, our part-time bookkeeper, and my deputy Charlie engaged in spirited discourse. When they see me, the conversation comes to an abrupt halt. We exchange smiles, but the warm greetings I’m used to are missing.

“Hey, Hank,” Charlie says, then checks his watch. “Guess I better do my rounds.”

Minnie slides her chair over to her desk and jumps on the computer without saying a word. Kate offers me a benign smile.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

Kate opens her desk drawer, removes an official-looking document, and with an anxious glance says, “Someone slipped it under our door.”

I take the document from her and review it with suspicious eyes. It’s slightly wrinkled but appears to be an election petition that calls for a change in the “top law enforcement position,” a fancy term for my job. “Two murders are enough!” it begins. “Could the chief of police have stopped the murder of our beloved Sheryl Murphy? Petition a change. Demand a new election and make this town crime-free again. A vote of confidence is a vote for Wayne Andrews.”

At first, I snicker. That wouldn’t be my deputy Wayne Andrews, would it? Then I consider the impact of this frivolous indictment and ask, “What the hell’s going on?”

Kate offers a shrug. “You better ask Wayne.”

I feel my face flush. “I don’t understand.”

Never at a loss for words, Kate doesn’t add anything more than, “I really don’t know, Hank.”

“He mention anything this morning?”

She shakes her head no.

I crush the paper and throw it in the trash. “That’s where it belongs,” I say, and storm into my office, slamming the door behind me.

As if the petition isn’t bad enough, I glance out the window and see Norman Strong standing outside his candy store handing out copies of the petition like gumdrops. His wife is probably inside sucking down milk shakes. Great loyalty, Norm! I’ll never buy another fucking candy bar from you as long as I live! What the hell is he worried about, anyway? Hunter wasn’t into the Rubenesque type.

This petition business isn’t about murder. It’s about fear. Fear of being associated with John Hunter. And fear that Eastpoint will be regarded as just another Peyton Place. People here don’t give two shits that Hunter was killed. But they do care about Sheryl’s murder. And one can only speculate about the actions of an enraged husband.

I know this. I feel it. But I can’t prove it. Sheryl wasn’t raped, there were no signs of a struggle, and nothing was taken from her purse. When I reached the bar the night Sheryl was murdered, Paddy was nowhere in sight. When he showed up from the back of the bar, he told me he’d needed a break from the smoke. What bothers me is that if Paddy’s hair was wet, how come his clothes were dry?

According to one witness, Sheryl left the bar around five-thirty and got into her car alone.

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