Page 101 of Conrad

“Yeah. I talked to him before then, and he dodged my questions and said he was leaving town. I’ll bet that’s where he is.”

He picked up a business card. “This is a PI’s card. Didn’t he say he hired an arson investigator?”

“Yes.”

He pocketed the card.

“I can’t get into the computer.” She looked at him. “But why would he leave his computer if he was going out of town?”

He stared back. “Maybe he came back and really did contact you last night.”

“So . . . who tried to run me over?”

He frowned. Sighed. “Good question.”

Then he stepped out of the room. She followed.

He opened the last door. And his arm flew out.

She stopped, peered over his arm. Stilled.

A bedroom, and a man lay at the foot of the bed, clearly dead, lying in a puddle of rusty blood, a hole in his chest.

She put her hand to her nose, the smell faint, so clearly he hadn’t been dead long.

“Walsh?” Conrad said.

She leaned past him to look, and everything inside her froze. “That’s Derek Swindle.”

Conrad turned and pushed her from the room. “Don’t touch anything.”

“I’m wearing gloves!” She went in for the computer, but he grabbed her. “Leave it!”

“What—”

“We’re at amurderscene. We broke into Walsh’s house, Penny! Let’s move.” He pushed her down the hall.

“But what if it has something on it?”

He rounded on her. “Whoever killed Swindle clearly wasn’t interested in the computer. So whatever is on it doesn’t matter. And I don’t want to be charged with theft too. Whatdoesmatter is?—”

A siren. Deep in the neighborhood, lifting, and he stilled, his eyes widening.

“C’mon.” She grabbed his hand, pulled him across the kitchen to the stairway, then down and out through the garage.

The whining grew louder. She closed the garage door on their way out.

He was already in the truck, engine on, when she climbed in. He pulled out, nearly without looking, put it in gear, and drove up the road, glancing in the rearview mirror.

No cops. But the siren still blared.

“Just drive normal.”

“What’s normal when you’re fleeing from a crime scene?” He glanced at her.

“Normal is not running stop signs.” She pointed at an upcoming sign, and he slammed the brakes.

Just a neighborhood intersection, but the tires slid on the pavement, and he had to pump the brakes to keep the truck from careering into the ditch.

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