Lost Souls. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Jay stepped out of the shower and toweled off after a weekend of ripping off paneling and repairing the tears to the plaster that had been beneath the wooden facade. His muscles ached from hours with a chisel and hammer, but the house was taking shape. Most of the deconstruction was about finished. He had only a bit of linoleum to rip up and then he’d be ready to rebuild. He threw on boxers, a pair of khakis, and a cotton sweater, then yanked on a pair of socks and stepped into his shoes as he checked his watch. Less than an hour until his first class. With Kristi Bentz. He’d had no notes of anyone, including Kristi, dropping out, so he expected to see her.

      Brace yourself, he thought, then chided himself for being childish. They were both adults now. So they’d gone together as teenagers. So what? Time had marched on and other relationships had come and gone.

      The phone rang and he recognized Gayle’s number. What the hell did she want and why now, when he was just getting ready to deal with Kristi, did he have to talk to her? He almost didn’t answer. But the thought that she might really be in trouble, might really need him, caused him to take the call. Good old trusty Jay. “Hi,” he said, without preamble. They both knew about Caller ID.

      “Hi, Jay, how’re you?” she asked in that soft, dulcet drawl he’d once found so intriguing.

      An interior designer who adored antiques and New Orleans architecture, she’d grown up in Atlanta, the only daughter of a judge and his wife. Jay had found her cultured, smart, beautiful, and fun-loving. Until they’d gotten serious. Then he’d recognized her strong, unbending will and almost obsessive attention to detail. How many times had she insisted his tie hadn’t matched his shirt and jacket, or that his shoes were out of style, or that his jeans were far too “ratty to even be considered hip, darlin’?” Her temper, too, had come to the fore. What did it say about his personality that he always picked hardheaded, smart, sassy women who could blow at any minute. For a half a second, he thought of Kristi Bentz. Talk about a temper! Kristi’s was practically legendary. Jay figured his choices in women were a major character flaw.

      “I’m doin’ fine, Gayle,” he said, realizing she was waiting for a response. Tonight, he didn’t have time for niceties. “How ’bout you?”

      “All right, I guess.”

      “Good, good.” He was gathering up his keys and wallet, making certain he had everything he needed. His gaze scraped the interior of the cottage as he made certain he was leaving everything secure.

      “But I have to be honest. Sometimes I get lonely. Sometimes I miss you,” Gayle said, drawing his attention back to the telephone conversation.

      His gut tightened. “I thought you were dating someone—an attorney, right? Manny or Michael or something?”

      She hesitated, then said, “Martin. But it’s not the same.”

      “Nothing ever is. It’s always different, sometimes better, other times worse.” Why the hell was he even having this conversation?

      As if she knew she’d pushed him too far, she said, “I know this is the night of your first class and I wanted to wish you luck.”

      Yeah, right. “Thanks.”

      “You’ll do great!”

      The woman did know how to stroke his ego.

      “Hope so.”

      “Believe me, those kids will be enthralled with all that creepy forensic stuff.”

      “Yeah?” He checked his watch. Time to go. Where the hell was the leash? He didn’t want to take Bruno anywhere without it. Oh, maybe in the truck!

      “Oh, yeah, honey. I’ve heard you speak. You know, I was wondering—”

      Here it came, the real reason for her call.

      “I know you spend most of your weekends up there at your cousins’ house, but when you’re back in the city, give me a call. I’d love to go out for a glass of wine or dinner or something…. You know, no strings attached.”

      The no strings part, he didn’t believe.

      “I doubt I’ll have any time before the end of the term,” he said. “Pretty busy.”

      “I know, Jay. You always are. That’s the way I like it.”

      Again, a fairy tale. She liked a man she could boss around. That’s where most of their problems began and ended. “Listen, Gayle, I gotta run. Take care.”

      “You, too,” she whispered as he hung up and whistled to the dog. He was not going to be pulled into the trap of dating Gayle Hall again. Not ever. He’d learned his lesson and had the scar above his eyebrow to prove it.

      He double-checked the lock on the back door, then gathered his notes and stuffed them into his banged-up briefcase. He had samples in the case as well. Examples of evidence that he’d share with his class. The science of forensics had become a big deal since the airing of the CSI shows and their knock-offs on television, and Jay figured part of his job was to point out the difference between fiction and fact, between wrapping up a drama in forty-odd minutes, and doing the legwork and lab work that required hours and hours in real life. Even the shows on Court TV were somewhat misleading with days, weeks, months, and even years of detective work wrapped up in under an hour. Though the detectives and criminalists and even the announcers would remind the viewer of the time that passed, the case was always solved within an hour, including time for advertisements. It was all part of the quick response/action/reaction short attention span television programming that viewers had come to expect.

      If only they knew the truth about all the fancy television-inspired crime labs that could get DNA evidence back nearly instantly. The extraction of body fluid, the dropping of a sample of the fluid into a test tube, a flick of a switch and the spin of some centrifuge, and voilà, DNA results. In truth it took weeks and months to process, and then there was the matter of all the evidence that had been destroyed by the hurricane. Not only evidence that could convict a criminal, but evidence that might exonerate an innocent man. Or woman. It made him sick to think about it.

      He locked the front door behind him, whistled to the dog, then with Bruno at his heels, walked briskly to his truck. The rain that had pummeled this part of Louisiana all day had stopped, leaving sodden ground and the air heavy with a thick mist that seemed to rise to the skeletal, bone white branches of the cypress trees.

      A perfect night to discuss the subject of murder.