Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) Gemma Halliday (13 ebook reader TXT) 📖

a blue-jawed, slit-eyed chunk of granite standing under a crew cut and wearing a badge that read G. Mulroy.

"You want to know what, now?" he asked for the second time.

"Good thing he's pretty," Irene muttered. "Because he's not too bright."

Ignoring her, I craned my neck to look up at G. Mulroy. "I've inherited the house at 221 Baker Street from my great-aunt, Kate Quigley. I'd like to speak to the detective in charge of her case."

"A house," he repeated.

I nodded.

"Baker Street," he repeated. "221, you say?"

Irene blew out an impatient sigh. "Big Victorian where junk goes to die."

The slitted eyes slid over to assess Irene for a moment before shifting back to me. "You want to talk to Detective Lestrade."

"Great. Good." Irene nodded. "Now we're making progress. Is he here?"

Again the eyes, slow moving and flat but watchful, moved between us. "Take a seat." He tipped his head toward a low-slung bench against the far wall. "I'll call him."

We sat facing a bulletin board plastered with Wanted flyers of hard-looking fugitives glaring insolently into the camera. Lots of tattooed necks and crooked noses to go along with all the bad attitude. It left a lot to be desired as décor, but there wasn't much else to look at. The wall itself was an ugly mix of half off-white, half battleship gray. No art. No magazines. No potted plants. The entrance door across the lobby to the right. A door leading to the inner sanctum to the left. The place was designed strictly for function.

The door on the left swung open, and a thin man wearing navy trousers, a white dress shirt, and red tie stepped into the lobby. His hair was threaded with silvery white, his eyes were black, his nose was thin and slightly hooked, and his Adam's apple was prominent.

"Miss Hudson?"

I stood. "I'm Miss Hudson."

He shook my hand crisply and dropped it as if it burned him. "Detective Lestrade. I understand you're related to Kate Quigley."

I nodded. "That's right. I recently found out I'm her sole beneficiary, and I—"

"All of her personal effects have been forwarded to her lawyer, the city put a new lock on the door to replace the one we had to force open, and any other damages to the place need to be submitted in writing via the clerk upstairs."

I blinked at him. "Uh, okay."

He gave me a curt nod and moved to turn away.

"Excuse me," I said. "Is that it?"

He paused. "You wanted more?"

"Well…I thought maybe you could tell me something about her."

He looked like he'd already spent more time than he'd budgeted on this case. "Like what?"

Good question. "Well, um, for starters, how did she die?"

"How?" he repeated.

I nodded again. "Yes. I didn't know I had a great-aunt Kate, so this has all been kind of a shock."

"I can imagine." His tone suggested he couldn't imagine at all. "I'm afraid I can't tell you much beyond that her manner of death has been officially listed as natural."

"What does that mean?" Irene asked.

Lestrade did the same shifty-eye thing as the desk sergeant to stare at Irene for a moment with no expression. Funny how all cops seemed to do that. "It means," he said, "she died of natural causes, ma'am."

An angry flush spread upward from Irene's neck. Hard to know whether it was because of the sarcasm or the "ma'am." In Irene's youth-centric world, "ma'am" was a dirty word.

I put a hand on her arm before she could say anything to drive Lestrade back into the unreachable back office. "Can't you tell us anything more than that?" I asked. "I mean, she was family to me."

Lestrade's expression remained stolid. "Sorry, ma'am, that's all I can tell you. If you want more information, you'll have to talk to the ME." He glanced at his watch. "Only John's elbow deep in an autopsy right now, so you'll have to come back later this afternoon."

"What a poet," Irene muttered.

I had to admit, the phrasing brought up some gross imagery.

"You mean you can't even tell us if the poor lady fell down the stairs or had cancer or what?" Irene pressed.

"Talk to the ME, ma'am," he repeated. "This afternoon."

"Fine," I snapped. "I'll talk to the ME. You've been very helpful, Detective."

"To protect and to serve, ma'am," he said. He turned on his heel and slithered back through the inner-sanctum door.

Irene stared after him. "Is that guy for real?"

I shrugged. "I'm sure he's got rules and regulations to follow. We'll just come back later when the medical examiner is free." I glanced at the time on my phone. "I have to get to the coffee bar anyway."

"Yeah." Irene nodded. "I have a meeting with some guys looking for a VC."

VC was short for venture capitalist, which was what most of Irene's money did for her these days—fund the latest dot-com sensation in exchange for insane returns that kept her in designer handbags and Louboutins.

"What's this one?" I asked as we made our way outside.

"It's called the Boyfriend Babysitter."

I raised a questioning eyebrow her way.

"It's an app that tracks how many times your boyfriend's heart rate spikes when he's around other women."

I barely covered a snort. "Sounds like a winner."

Irene shrugged. "We'll see. All depends on their cost to get the beta ready for market. Anyway, I'll come by the bookshop afterwards, and we can go see if John's elbows have come up for air yet."

Even coming from her, it was still gross.

CHAPTER THREE

The Medical Examiner's office was about as warm and inviting as a penitentiary. The floor was linoleum tile, beige flecked with brown and moss green. The walls were cinderblock. The lighting was fluorescent. The seats were hard, molded plastic.

"They couldn't spring for a couple