Labyrinth / Bones (Nameless Detective: 2 Stories in 1)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Book by Pronzini, Bill
now. And I was right: on the other side of the hill the cab made another right-hand turn and entered Brisbane on Old Country Road. My hands were tight around the wheel as I turned in after them. Brisbane was a small town of maybe four thousand people, nestled in the curves and cuts along the eastern slopes of the San Bruno Mountains overlooking the Bay. It had some similarities in appearance and population mix to Sausalito, although it was more of a bedroom community than an artistic one. A
Eberhardt said. “And that’s not a pun. Cunning lunatics don’t go after friends and members of their own families; they pick random victims. They also operate in a set pattern, the same kind of MO in each case. There’s no pattern here. Take the weapons, for instance.” “Weapons? Plural?” “Plural. Webster and Carding weren’t shot with the same gun. The girl was killed with a .32 caliber weapon—and there was no sign of it near her body. Carding was killed with the .38 you found in Talbot’s hand.
heard of Carding before the accident?” “I had not.” “What about his son Jerry?” “I didn’t know he had a son until the police told me at the hospital last night.” “Christine Webster?” “No.” “Lainey Madden?” “No. Who is she?” “The dead girl’s roommate.” “I’m not familiar with the name.” “Was anybody else involved in the accident?” “No. Only Martin and the Cardings. “Did Carding make any other threats against your brother? Call him at home later, write him a letter?” “I’m sure he
practice jerseys and maroon helmets, were spread out across the turf running plays and banging into tackling dummies and doing wind sprints. The grass was pretty chewed up and deep furrows striped it where the yardlines were. It was not getting as much care as it should, probably because of maintenance cutbacks by the college when Proposition 13 limited their tax revenue. I left the stands and crossed the track that ovaled the field and went to the sideline benches. A dark guy in his thirties
shell path to the porch. Just as I reached it, a slender attractive woman in her mid-forties came around one corner on a branch of the shell path. She wore a scarf over short graying hair, a pair of man’s dungarees, and a heavy plaid lumberman’s jacket; in her right hand were several sprigs of rosemary. She smiled when she saw me—a nice smile, friendly, infectious. “Hello there,” she said. “Something I can do for you?” I returned the smile. “Mrs. Darden?” “Yes?” Her expression sobered when I