Rarities Unlimited 01 - Moving Target - Elizabeth Lowell by Elizabeth Lowell

Author:Elizabeth Lowell
Language: bg
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-05-13T14:11:04+00:00

Chapter 36

PALM SPRINGS

FRIDAY NIGHT

As soon as Serena began weaving, Erik took his computer to the guest room, plugged it in again, and started hunting for new additions. Even though McCoy hadn’t called, he might have left something in the file.

He had.

“Thank you, O gods of geekdom,” Erik muttered.

He called up the Book of the Learned file, turned the audio down to zilch – Factoid’s running commentary tended to be loud and often obscene --and started reading about the night Ellis Weaver died.

The police work was about what he would expect of county cops whose major duties consisted of rousting prostitutes, scraping up human roadkill, and handcuffing mouthy drunks. Even if the cop work had been of the highest order, by the time the county fire truck emptied its tank and hosed down the smoking ruins of the cabin, there wasn’t much evidence left to collect.

What they had found was gruesome. Enough remained of Serena’s grandmother to prove in living color that a human being had burned to death. It was all there in the video file, the spine arched backward in death, the odd shreds of flesh or clothing that had escaped complete annihilation, the feeling of terrible screams echoing from the charred, open jaw.

Erik took a few deep breaths and let them out. He had seen autopsy reports and crime-scene photos before, but the grisly ones still turned his stomach. He forced himself to focus on the pages of written reports detailing evidence collected at the crime scene.

There wasn’t much real evidence. Tire tracks leading in and out on the dirt road and footprints around the cabin… yeah, there were lots and lots of them. Every county cop with a set of wheels and an hour to kill had driven up the road to offer his professional opinion on what had happened. The fire crew had left tracks and puddles all over the place. The arson investigation team had been more delicate, but only after they finished cussing out everyone who had messed up the scene in the first place.

The closest thing to a neighbor was Jolly Barnes, a hermit who lived a half mile down the road. He hadn’t heard or seen anything, because he had spent the night the way he always did – stinking drunk. Ellis Weaver didn’t have any friends to question. There wasn’t a lover, husband, ex-husband, or Peeping Tom. There was nothing worth stealing inside the cabin. No TV, no computer, no fancy electronics of any kind because there was no electricity. Ellis Weaver’s idea of cash on hand had been a dish of small change and a few crumpled dollar bills. The truck she drove was older than most high school graduates.

The cops had tried. The investigator assigned to the case had made the rounds of all the grungy bars, sun-hammered trailer parks, hobo campgrounds, and biker hangouts. A handful of people had heard about the death. No one looked guilty. No one gave a damn. No one had any idea why anyone would want to fry some old lady who lived alone.

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