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  Mrs. Jarowski cleared her throat. “Are you a doctor, too?” she asked me.

  “You might say I’m an expert on headaches. Tell me about yours, Mrs. Jarowski. Migraines, aren’t they?”

  The old lady’s sharp eyes softened. “I’ve had a lot of tests, even a couple of CAT scans, but they’ve all been inconclusive. I’ve been told they’re due to stress. One doctor said they’re psychosomatic.”

  “I doubt that,” I said, winning a grateful nod. “They get pretty bad sometimes, don’t they?”

  She nodded again, looking hopeful.

  “I can sure identify with that. I got mugged last year. A teenager with a baseball bat cracked my skull. Since then I get some really bad ones. I’m working up to a doozie right now.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” she asked, an odd catch to her voice.

  “Nothing. Tell me about Eric Devlin.”

  Her back went rigid. “I’ve already told the police, I don’t know anything about his disappearance.”

  “His mother said he was ‘all boy,’ but I get the feeling he was a little hellion. A noisy kid. Kind of a brat, really.”

  Dr. Marsh glared at me as if I’d blasphemed God almighty. The whole city had developed a reverence for the missing child.

  Mrs. Jarowski didn’t share that feeling.

  “He used to ride up and down the sidewalk on one of those big plastic tricycles for hours at a time. Up and down and up and down. They make one hell of a racket, don’t they?”

  Her lips tightened. The tension in that kitchen nearly crackled.

  My nausea cranked up a notch and I loosened my tie. On the verge of passing out, I rested my elbows on the table to steady myself.

  “When I have one of these sick headaches, I have to lie down in a dark room with absolute quiet. Otherwise I think I’d go insane. That ever happen to you?”

  Mrs. Jarowski’s gaze pinned me.

  The vision streaked before my mind’s eye: Eric, eyes round with anticipation, his small hand clutching the tumbler of chocolate milk, something his mother would never let him have. Paula calling to him from somewhere outside. The half empty glass falling to the spotless floor, shattering. Chocolate milk splashing the walls and cabinet doors.

  “It’s peaceful and quiet these days,” I said. “Like a morgue.” My gaze drifted to the full-sized refrigerator—back to her. I swallowed down bile. “You want to show me?”

  Her cheeks flushed. She wouldn’t look at me.

  Dr. Marsh and Richard looked at me in confusion. Mrs. Jarowski seemed to weigh the question, her solemn gaze focused on the floor.

  “The freezer, right?”

  Mrs. Jarowski’s anger slipped, replaced by a tremendous sense of guilt—but not, I noticed, remorse.

  “Dr. Alpert, maybe you should have a look.”

  She held her ground.

  Richard brushed past me, crossed the room in three steps. His eyes bored into hers and she backed down, moving aside. The freezer door swung open. A heavy, black plastic garbage bag filled the space. He worked on the twist tie, pulled back the plastic. His breath caught and he slammed the door, suddenly pale.

  “Holy Christ.”

  The quartz wall clock ticked loudly, but time seemed to stand still.

  At last Richard moved to the phone and punched 911. “I’m calling to report a body at 456 Weatherby, apartment C.”

  Richard swallowed as he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. Dr. Marsh blinked in confused revulsion.

  Stony-faced, Mrs. Jarowski turned, her slippered feet scuffing across the vinyl floor as she headed for the living room. She sat down on her faded couch, picked up the remote control and turned on the television.

  Finally Richard hung up the phone.

  “Dr. Marsh, can you watch Mrs. J until the police get here?” I asked.

  She nodded, still looking shell shocked.

  I squinted up at Richard. “Maybe you could help me to the bathroom. I don’t want to barf on Mrs. J’s nice clean floor.”

  * * * * *

  Breathing shallowly, I sat back against the lumpy couch, a hand covering my eyes to blot out the piercing light. After more than an hour, two of my pills still hadn’t put a dent in the throbbing headache.

  The cops had already taken Mrs. Jarowski away. The ME arrived, and the crime photographer was still flashing pictures in the kitchen. The place was full of cops, and the murmur of a dozen voices drilled through my skull.

  “Can I get you something, Mr. Resnick?” Lieutenant Brewer of the Buffalo Metropolitan Police stood over me. The chunky, balding cop still seemed taken aback that his case had been broken by an outsider.

  I squinted up at him. “Yeah. Assure my privacy—don’t give the press my name. The last thing I want is publicity.”

  “Okay, but answer me this; how’d you know?”

  “I don’t know how it works, it just does.”

  “The old lady waived her rights. Said she heard Ms. Devlin had signed a new two-year lease and decided she’d had enough of the noise. She lured the kid up here and made him quiet—permanently.”

  “And the chocolate milk?” Richard asked me.

  “The lure of a forbidden treat. Mrs. J ground up sleeping pills, had him drink it,” I said. “When he was dopey, she planned to smother him.”

  I thought about it—remembered what I’d seen when I’d touched her. Fury gave her the strength to hold the boy, who’d struggled in those last minutes. She’d sealed his nose and mouth with a wad of freshly pressed linen dish towels, pinning him against the floor until his body slackened, his small chest no longer heaving. Then she’d heard Paula Devlin frantically calling for her son. Anna Jarowski sat beside the dead boy for a long time—triumphant in the knowledge she’d finally silenced her intolerably noisy neighbor.

  I looked up at Brewer. “I take it you haven’t searched the place yet.”

  “Call me paranoid, but I’m waiting for a warrant. No way do I want this thrown out on a technicality.”

  “You’ll find what’s left of the tricycle in one of the closets. She’s got a hacksaw. Been cutting it up and sneaking it out in the trash for the past eight months.”

  Dr. Marsh elbowed her way through the crowd in the kitchen. She’d been gone about an hour—breaking the news to the boy’s mother, no doubt.

  “How’s Paula?” Richard asked.

  “I gave her a sedative. Now that her mother’s here, I think she’ll be all right.” She looked at me. “How are you, Jeff?” Her icy veneer had melted, her best bedside manner now firmly in place.

  “Sick.”

  “But you’ve got to feel good about what you’ve done.”

  I frowned. “I made two women miserable. Why would that make me feel good?”

  She seemed puzzled by my answer, but I didn’t have the energy to explain it to her. “Dr. Marsh, you said another psychic came here—what did she tell Paula?”

  “That the boy was well and living in a small town down South, anxious to be back home with his mother.”

  Poor Paula.

  “You need me anymore?” I asked the detective.

  He shook his head. “Go home before you keel over.”

  I glanced at my brother. “Now would be a good time, Rich.”

  I moved on shaky legs. Richard and Dr. Marsh steadied me on the stairs. We ducked under the crime scene tape and they pushed me through the throng of press as we headed for Richard’s Lincoln Town Car.

  Dr. Marsh crushed her business card into my palm. “Call me.” Her voice was husky, excited, like a rock star’s groupie.

  Reporters and cameramen swarmed as she slammed the car door. Richard left her to deal with them, taking off with a squeal and leaving rubber on the asphalt.

  “Sharks,” he muttered.

  I leaned against the headrest and considered my first consultation. By all counts, a royal success.

  Then why did I feel so dirty?

  © 2002 Lorraine Bartlett. All Rights Reser
ved.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  About the Author

  A native of Rochester, NY, L.L. Bartlett honed her characterization and plotting skills as a frequent writer for romance magazines and was a finalist in the St. Martin’s/Malice Domestic contest.

  In addition to the Jeff Resnick Mysteries, Bartlett also writes the New York Times Bestselling and Agatha-nominated Booktown Mystery series under the name of Lorna Barrett. Bookplate Special, the third book in the series, was nominated for an Agatha Award for best novel of 2009.

  Bartlett’s Victoria Square Mystery series will debut in February of 2011.

  Visit her website at: www.LLBartlett.com

  (You can also find her on Facebook, Myspace, and Twitter.)

  Also by

  L.L. Bartlett

  The Jeff Resnick Mysteries

  Murder On The Mind (2005)

  Dead In Red (2008)

  Short Stories:

  We’re So Sorry Uncle Albert (Amazon Shorts)

  Abused: A Daughter’s Story

  Cold Case–A Jeff Resnick Story

  Lorraine Bartlett

  The Victoria Square Mysteries

  A Crafty Killing (2/2011)

  The Walled Flower (2/2012)

  Short Stories:

  Only Skin Deep

  What I Did For Love

  Lorna Barrett

  The Booktown Mysteries

  Murder Is Binding (2008)

  Bookmarked For Death (2009)

  Bookplate Special (2009)

  Chapter & Hearse (2010)

  Sentenced To Death (2011)

  Murder On The Half Shelf (2012)