The Mermaid Murders (The Art of Murder 1)

“What do you know about what I am?” Jason said. “You knew one thing about me and used it to justify—” He stopped. This was a conversation he did not want to have. Not least because it wouldn’t solve anything. He had figured that much out a long time ago.

Boxner tilted his head, considering. Astonishingly, he acknowledged, “Maybe.”

He met Jason’s eyes. “I probably did bully you. So what? That’s what kids do. It made you tougher. It made you tough enough for the FBI.”

Jason said dryly, “Remind me to thank you.”

“I don’t want you to thank me. I don’t like you. I wouldn’t have liked you even if you hadn’t been queer. People always say it’s not personal. But it is, believe me.”

“Likewise.”

“But,” Boxner said, “since you are still queer, I realize now you didn’t kill Honey.”

Jason said scornfully, “You know damn well I didn’t kill her.”

Boxner grinned. “Because you think I did? Prove it.”

“I plan to.”

Boxner laughed. “My money’s on good old George Simpson. Chief won’t even consider it because he and Simpson go way back, but I think we’re going to find the connection we need when we talk to this Kyser character.” He glanced at Jason. “Which is going to be very disappointing for you, I know. Since you’re hoping Kyser will lead straight to me.”

Jason’s curiosity got the better of him. “How did Simpson come under suspicion in the first place? Wasn’t he a cop?”

“Ex-cop. Ex-state trooper. He was hunting buddies with Pink. His wife was a distant cousin to Pink.”

“Simpson’s wife was related to Pink?”

“A third cousin or something.”

“And how was it that Simpson was cleared of suspicion?”

“He had an alibi for all the murders.”

“All of them? That’s suspicious right there.”

Boxner nodded grimly. “Yep.”

“What was Simpson’s alibi?” Jason groaned as the realization struck him. “Are you kidding me? His wife alibied him?”

Boxner’s smile was dour. “The light goes on,” he said.

Chapter Eighteen

Dr. Jeremy Kyser lived in a renovated nineteenth century stone farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. The two-story structure sat in a green field surrounded by four acres of neatly trimmed grass. And only grass. Not a tree or a shrub or so much as a wild flower was in sight. A pristine black Porsche was parked in the drive behind the house.

“There’s a guy with bucks,” Boxner commented. “You have to be rich to be able to afford this much nothing.”

They got out of the cruiser and walked up to the front door. Boxner buzzed the doorbell and then thumped on the door.

Jason took a step back to examine the front of the house. The curtains were open, but there was not another sign of life. Not a sound came from inside the house. No dog, no TV, no radio.

“Maybe they’re out,” Boxner said.

“There’s a car parked out back.”

Boxner rapped on the door again. Jason was turning to go scope out the back of the house when the front door suddenly, soundlessly swung open.

“May I help you, Officer?” the man in the doorway inquired.