Stone Cold Dead James Ziskin (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📖

was yelling for me to wait. With sadistic relish, I released the brake and pulled away from the shoulder. Driving no faster than ten miles an hour, I maintained a safe distance from my pursuer, who never got any closer than ten yards or so. I accelerated when needed, braked when I felt a carrot was in order, then gunned the engine again to leave him in my cold dust. I marveled at his persistence. I reveled in it. He just wouldn’t give up. He ran desperately, lunging to reach the car, but falling short each time as I teased him with a well-timed acceleration. Pulling him along like a yo-yo, I continued this strategy for about ten minutes, laughing at his stamina and stupidity, until I saw the cherry top appear on the horizon behind us. In two minutes, Deputy Stan Pulaski had corralled a frozen and exhausted Joey Figlio. I threw the car into reverse and backed up fifty yards to enjoy my victory.

“Add attempted murder to the charges,” I told Stan. “That little JD tried to cut my throat.”

Joey Figlio stared vacantly at me from the fender of Stan’s cruiser, huffing in the frozen air. His eyes told me nothing.

By the time I’d made a statement at the sheriff’s office, it was nearly eleven. Joey Figlio would spend a night in the county jail before a morning appearance with the family-court judge. Joey was, of course, a minor. I was scheduled to attend to give testimony against the rotten little thug.

I turned south out of the County Administrative Building’s lot and pointed my Lancer down Route 22, confident there was no juvenile delinquent waiting in the backseat. I intended to have that Scotch, and perhaps two more, and curl up on the sofa with the newspapers Norma Geary had collected for me. The Wilkens Corners Liquor Store appeared on the horizon to my right, a diffused white glow in the frigid night. I pulled into the gravel lot and climbed out. The door was still frozen open, but I wasn’t worried about Joey Figlio anymore.

A fifth of Scotch safely tucked into my overcoat’s hip pocket, I climbed back into my car and reversed onto Route 40. Change of plans. Instead of heading south, I turned across Wilkens Corner Road, then down Upper Church Street to the East End, where I picked up Route 5. Ten minutes later, I was knocking on Ted Russell’s door.

CHAPTER NINE

Ted Russell was hardly the answer to my prayers, but I wasn’t asking for much. I just wanted to see where the evening could go with a handsome man and plenty of booze. There was always the chance it could lead to something unexpected or provide a temporary elixir for the tedium of the bitter-cold winter.

My host was happy to see me, if eyes lighting up like the flash of an H-bomb meant what it used to. He took my coat, poured me a drink, and shoved a log into the Franklin stove in the parlor. He put some Nat King Cole on the hi-fi: “Pretend.” Before the second track came on, his arms were around me, and moments later my drink was orphaned on the side table, surely leaving a ring as the ice melted and the glass sweated. Ten minutes after that on the rough rug, I lifted myself onto my elbows, pushed my hair out of my face, and reached for my clothing. Ted huffed and puffed, red-faced, and covered himself with the afghan from the sofa.

“Wow,” he said, wiping his brow. “That was . . . wonderful. Was it good for you, too?”

I smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

“Let me get you a fresh drink,” he said, jumping to his feet, but I stopped him.

“I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” I said. “I should be going.”

THURSDAY, JANUARY 5, 1961

By the time I’d parked my Lancer on County Highway 58, the heater was cooking with gas, but the car hadn’t quite reached toasty. It was still dark, the air frigid, but I had a hot cup of coffee inside me. No breakfast. The mailbox had no name on it, but I knew it was Carol Liswenski’s house. I’d watched her climb down from the bus the day before. Now, with an arctic breeze blowing across the road, I saw her emerge from the long drive leading to her house. She was wrapped in snow pants, rubber boots, and a blue coat with a gray faux-fur collar. She clutched a plaid lunch pail in one hand and three or four books strapped together in the other. I switched on my headlamps, startling her, and I inched the car closer.

“Don’t be frightened, Carol,” I said through the window. “It’s me, Ellie Stone from the newspaper.”

She shivered in the cold, squinting into the glare of my headlamps, and waited for me to say something.

“Climb in until the bus gets here,” I said. “It’s warm. Come on.”

Carol didn’t hesitate. She jumped in and soaked up the heat with relish.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” she asked.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said.

“So you’re waiting outside my house for me?”

“I have to see Mrs. Metzger later. I’m a little early.”

She shrugged and switched on the radio. She seemed happy with Anita Bryant singing “My Little Corner of the World.” I wasn’t.

“Since I have you here, I wanted to ask you something,” I said. “You told me that Darleen got off the bus in the parking lot at the junior high the day she disappeared.”

“Yeah, that’s right. What about it?”

“You also said she got off the bus to talk to somebody. Can you tell me who that was?”

Carol ran her tongue over her braces as she thought it over. Then she shook her head and said she didn’t see who Darleen had spoken to. I still felt she was hiding something and asked her again.

“Was it a student? One of Darleen’s boyfriends? A teacher, perhaps?”

Carol almost said something, but just then the