Skip Case (David Dean Mysteries)

"That makes sense, Lieutenant," DeLeo said. "If you ask me, those Norfolk guys would be better off checking the airports than the bottom of the bay."

The lieutenant motioned for Dean to follow into his office at the end of the hall where Anderson reiterated the meager details of the Byrne case. Dean made up his mind not to make up his mind until he knew more about the case.

Lieutenant Anderson was leaning toward natural causes. "He got loaded and went for a dip, pure and simple. Sure, it looks like a phony and we've got to check it out, but my money says it's a drowning. Talk to the wife and go down to Philly where he works and maybe check out some of the neighbors. Norfolk wants to clean this up and they're looking for direction on which way to lean."

"Just what I need," Dean grumbled. "First I get to third-degree a woman who just lost her husband and then I get to fight Philadelphia traffic."

Anderson looked up, irritated at Dean's mood. "Boy, have you been bitchy lately."

Dean had to agree, but going to Philadelphia was like a visit to the dentist: once in a while you had to do it but nobody liked it. Not even the commuters who lied to themselves and everyone else by saying the hour and a half at each end of the day was a pleasurable time to relax and read the paper. Dean muttered an apology to his superior and left the lieutenant's office.

When he returned to the main room, Harrigan had left to talk to a class of grade-school children, a job at which he excelled, much to the pleasure of the others who shunned playing Officer Friendly. Sackler and DeLeo were packing up, off to follow a lead on the whereabouts of a forger of Social Security checks who had been working overtime in recent months.

Dean spent a few minutes at his desk finishing up some rou­tine paperwork before telephoning the alleged widow Byrne at 9:15, the earliest time he deemed respectable. The phone was answered by a woman who identified herself as Mrs. Riley, a neigh­bor. After offering his condolences, Dean asked if it might be con­venient for him to come by and speak with Mrs. Byrne. He held the phone for a few moments while Mrs. Riley checked. She returned, saying that 10:30 would be fine. Dean had hoped to make it as soon as possible so he could beat the worst of the late afternoon traffic when he returned from his chores in Philadelphia. It didn't look good. White days were always like that.