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Authors: Loren D. Estleman

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*   *   *

I'd gotten almost as bad from John Alderdyce the night Mary Ann went missing. He didn't buy my story that she hadn't told me anything anyone could use, but he knew it wasn't worth anything anyway. I'd refused to wear a wire, and he knew as well as I did it wouldn't work. He'd trained her himself. Jack Henderson—“Hawkeye” they called him at 1300—never asked why he'd been recruited for the job, and on orders from the inspector never told anyone else. Maybe his wife; but any woman who's stayed with a cop fifteen years is as hard to crack as a Navy SEAL.

*   *   *

Mary Ann must have been prepared, with a go bag packed, passport and all. When the feds searched her office and apartment, all they found was her service piece. She made it as far as Nova Scotia, where the FBI met her before she could board an international flight. She didn't resist. They tagged her with misappropriation of funds. There might have been something in it, although I doubt she ever thought she'd have to make good on that ten thousand. But they could keep building on that and keep her in Camp Cupcake for twenty years.

Boris Ataman drew life without parole for the hit-and-run killing of Roy Thompson, Yuri Yako's would-be accuser. That story vanished between the six and eleven
P.M.
reports.

They hung the Yako murder on two brothers named Kobolov, heavy lifters for the Ukrainian mob, who'd gone back to Kiev. Extradition proceedings are pending; Barry keeps me posted on that, not that I care.

Ray Henty left the department six months after our last conversation to take a job as head of security for a national hotel chain. He advertised the Fairlane for sale on Craigslist. The sheriff promoted Benteen, the detective Henty had inherited from the Iroquois Heights Police Department, to acting lieutenant to fill his post. The poison was rooted too deep in that city to snuff out. It was already wearing through the new coat of paint.

The last time I saw Don Gates's smiling face, it was vanishing behind a sleek gray Lincoln being pasted up in big square sheets to advertise a new dealership. One ear and part of his chin was all that was left.

Somewhere in there my phone rang and a female voice—warm, middle-register—used my first name. My heart made a happy little lurch, as if the past several weeks hadn't happened, like when you dream; but she was in federal custody, not likely to make bail, and in any case wouldn't waste a call on a work-related acquaintance. That's all I was when it came down to the nuts and bolts, never mind that it was one of the longest relationships in my history, marriage included. The caller was an old girlfriend. She had a friend applying for an investigator's job with Reliance, a big firm with offices in Detroit, Birmingham, Chicago, and San Francisco, and he needed as many references as he could get. I told her anything I had to say would only harm his chances. After thirty seconds she agreed. I never heard from her again. I barely remembered her anyway. She'd only remembered me because of the association.

Hanging up, I felt blue. I wanted a drink; but I hadn't had any liquor in the house or office in ten days, hadn't been to a bar, and had swept the medicine cabinet of pills, including a couple of dusty Advils in the bottom of a bottle. I went out for a cup of coffee instead, which turned out to be a mistake. I sleep soundly when I sleep at all, and the caffeine didn't help. I was running out of substances to abuse.

Several times I thought about calling Jeannie Miernik, the therapist in Redford Township, purely for social purposes; but I never got past the first digit. I'd seen too many episodes of
The Sopranos
to think that would work out.

I'd gone straight from Henty's house to Amelie Gates's, where I gave her as much as I thought she could handle; some of it was green-stamped, and she didn't have to know about Florence Melville. She let me talk to Michel then, with her in the room. I told the boy his father had died in defense of his country. That was enough, for ten years old. In a couple of years, when he started asking questions, it would be his mother who would have to answer them. I got the better part of that deal.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I'd like to thank Richard Perlberg and Jeannie Miernik for donating their names to this book in the cause of literacy. Any resemblance beyond those names is purely unintentional.

Books by Loren D. Estleman

AMOS WALKER MYSTERIES

Motor City Blue

Angel Eyes

The Midnight Man

The Glass Highway

Sugartown

Every Brilliant Eye

Lady Yesterday

Downriver

Silent Thunder

Sweet Women Lie

Never Street

The Witchfinder

The Hours of the Virgin

A Smile on the Face of the Tiger

Sinister Heights

Poison Blonde
*

Retro
*

Nicotine Kiss
*

American Detective
*

The Left-Handed Dollar
*

Infernal Angels
*

Burning Midnight
*

Don't Look for Me
*

You Know Who Killed Me
*

VALENTINO, FILM DETECTIVE

Frames
*

Alone
*

Alive!
*

DETROIT CRIME

Whiskey River

Motown

King of the Corner

Edsel

Stress

Jitterbug
*

Thunder City
*

PETER MACKLIN

Kill Zone

Roses Are Dead

Any Man's Death

Something Borrowed, Something Black
*

Little Black Dress
*

OTHER FICTION

The Oklahoma Punk

Sherlock Holmes vs. Dracula

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Holmes

Peeper

Gas City
*

Journey of the Dead
*

The Rocky Mountain Moving Picture Association
*

Roy & Lillie: A Love Story
*

The Confessions of Al Capone
*

PAGE MURDOCK SERIES

The High Rocks
*

Stamping Ground
*

Murdock's Law
*

The Stranglers

City of Widows
*

White Desert
*

Port Hazard
*

The Book of Murdock
*

WESTERNS

The Hider

Aces & Eights
*

The Wolfer

Mister St. John

This Old Bill

Gun Man

Bloody Season

Sudden Country

Billy Gashade
*

The Master Executioner
*

Black Powder, White Smoke
*

The Undertaker's Wife
*

The Adventures of Johnny Vermillion
*

The Branch and the Scaffold
*

Ragtime Cowboys

NONFICTION

The Wister Trace

Writing the Popular Novel

 

*
Published by Tom Doherty Associates

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Loren D. Estleman is the author of more than seventy novels. Some of his many honors include four Shamus Awards, five Spur Awards, and three Western Heritage Awards. He lives in Michigan with his wife, author Deborah Morgan.

www.lorenestleman.com

 

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

YOU KNOW WHO KILLED ME

 

Copyright © 2014 by Loren D. Estleman

 

All rights reserved.

 

Cover design by Drive Communications, New York

 

Cover image © 2014 Shutterstock

 

A Forge Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

 

www.tor-forge.com

 

Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

 

eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected]

 

The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

 

ISBN 978-0-7653-3735-1 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4668-3434-7 (e-book)

 

e-ISBN 9781466834347

 

First Edition: December 2014

BOOK: You Know Who Killed Me
5.23Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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