Killer Summer by Lynda Curnyn (e book reading free .txt) 📗

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter if it was the victim’s best friend pushing her under. If a person is being forced under water she—or he—is going to fight it. Kicking, scratching. Something always turns up—a DNA sample under the nails, for example.”

He said this with such confidence, I was starting to believe that maybe I had been unduly suspicious. Then I thought of something. “How do you know the victim wasn’t dead when she went into the water?”

“Well, that’s easy enough. When a person drowns, they inhale water into the lungs. The medical examiner would be able to tell that due to the condition of the lungs, the presence of microorganisms from the water in the person’s system.”

Micro-organisms? Yuck. Even if Maggie wasn’t murdered, drowning didn’t sound like the most pleasant of deaths.

“What if she—that is, the victim—was unconscious? Would she inhale water then?”

He stiffened. “Look, Zoe, I don’t know what your interest is in this case, but I don’t feel comfortable talking in too much detail…”

That was interesting. What had made him so uncomfortable? I switched tracks. “Oh, well. I guess I can go to the department to get my information. But it’s too bad. That’ll take time, and I was hoping to get my research down before I started filming.”

“Filming?” he replied, his interest piqued.

Gotcha, I thought, trying not to smile. Worked like a charm every time. I knew from long experience that it was easy to get somebody to talk about a subject if they knew their words might one day be immortalized on film.“I’m a documentary filmmaker. I directed Invisible People, a piece on New York City’s homeless. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

He frowned. “No, I haven’t.”

So much for my ego.

Still, he seemed interested. “What are you working on now?”

“Oh, just something on water-related accidents. For PBS.”

“Really?”

I nodded.

“Well, I can answer a few questions, I suppose.”

Bingo.“So let me ask you, how can you tell if a person was conscious—in any sort of drowning, that is—before he or she hit the water? What if she was hit over the head? Or he,” I added, quickly.

“Well, as I already mentioned, we would look for evidence of a struggle. If she had suffered a blow to the head rendering her unconscious, the autopsy would reveal that.”

“So let me ask you, does the investigating officer go over the autopsy? You know, to compare his findings at the scene with the medical examiner’s?”

“Well, not necessarily me. That is, not necessarily the first officer on the scene.”

“Who would?”

“Drowning deaths are turned over to homicide, and they do the follow-up. Accidents like that always are followed up by them,” he replied, a bit defensively I thought.

“Oh. So who has access to that information?”

“Whatever detective was on homicide that night.” I saw him physically slump as he said this, as if he realized he was no longer my hero.

But I realized there was someone who could be my hero. Myles. Last summer he’d interned at the D.A.‘s office for Suffolk County, thanks to his dad, who’d recommended him for the position. Hell, Myles might even know the homicide detective who was on that night. His father probably had.

I would have to talk to Myles. If he was still willing to talk to me.

Chapter Fifteen

Nick

Money doesn’t grow on trees. But far be it from me not to plant a few seeds.

“Dude, I got you covered. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.“

This was a first for me. I’m sitting on the beach, gazing out into the ocean, plastic cup of beer in hand, making a deal. It’s the kind of thing that can give a guy a woody, you know?

And I would have a woody if Les Wolf, aka Paranoid Lead Singer of Nose Dive, knew enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I’m offering this guy a chance to sign with Revelation, and he’s hemming and hawing over money. “No worries,” I told him last week when we started hammering out the deal, and he’s still worrying.

“So you’re going to put up ten thousand just for publicity. That’s over and above the advance and recording costs,” Les said.

I glanced over at Sage, who was still fast asleep on a blanket on the other side of the umbrella from me. Still, I lowered my voice. “I told you, dude. Money is not a problem here.”

“And all the monies we discussed—for the advance, publicity, recording—those will be in the contract?”

I sighed. “My lawyer’s working on it right now.” Good thing my dad was my lawyer. I had just popped a payment of two grand in the mail to Lance to get him working on the site, and after I paid the monies I promised in this contract, I was going to be back where I started again. Nearly broke. But all that would change. Just as soon as we got our first CD distributed, the royalties would start rolling in.

“Listen, Les, I’d love to talk all day with you, man, but I got another client to call.” Another client. Yeah right. Another beer maybe. Not that I’m a bullshitter. But when it comes to negotiating, you gotta treat the prospective client like you would the prospective lay. Always make them think there’s someone you want more.

Smiling, I listened as Les promised to call as soon as he talked to the rest of the band. “No later than next week,” he said.

“Later,” I said, snapping the phone shut with a smile. Worked like a charm.

As if to prove my point, my cell rang again. I looked at the caller ID. Bernadine. Of course Bernadine was calling. Probably because I hadn’t yet responded to her post breakup call. The one she always followed up the breakup letter with. I never understood why the call was necessary. I guess Bern wanted to make sure I understood all those heartfelt thoughts she put in her letters. Hell, if I didn’t understand by