Tracking Shot by Colin Campbell (best book reader .TXT) 📕

the road out front of the orphanage, a ribbon of light that extended around two sides and across Linden Street. Amy Moore was long gone but McNulty found Larry sitting opposite on a bench in the CVS parking lot. His shoulders were hunched and his chin rested on his chest. He looked drained and devoid of energy. McNulty sat beside him but didn’t speak. They both watched the blue lights as the crime scene was processed. Brilliant white flashes showed the interior of the courtroom was still being photographed. Larry sighed.

“When you reckon they’ll let us back in?”

McNulty threw the producer a sideways look. “You’re not thinking of carrying on?”

Larry turned on the bench. “Crazed gunman shoots judge on movie set.”

McNulty could see the publicity cogs turning behind Larry’s eyes. “He shot more than a judge.”

Larry tapped his thigh with one finger. “He shot a judge.” He waved toward the District Court building farther along the street. “Two hundred yards from a real judge.”

McNulty followed Larry’s gaze then looked back at the producer. “Nobody’s that stupid.”

Larry raised his eyebrows then pointed at the front of the orphanage. The façade was an exact replica of the District Courthouse, complete with a sign that read,

SECOND DISTRICT COURT

OF EASTERN MIDDLESEX

FOUR

The Crescent Motel on the south bank of the Charles River was abuzz with speculation and crosstalk. Filming had been shut down for the day and nobody knew when they’d be allowed back on set, so the cast and crew of Dead Naked had nothing to do but talk about the shooting. McNulty didn’t want to talk about the shooting, so he went to the Greenway Diner instead. Across the river from the motel. Far enough away to be private. Near enough to be a short walk from his room.

“You need more time, honey?” The waitress indicated the menu that McNulty hadn’t even looked at yet. She caught the distracted look on his face and understood. “There’s a more private booth back here.”

McNulty nodded his thanks and allowed himself to be ushered toward an alcove down one side. He slid into the booth but still didn’t look at the menu. The waitress gave him some time.

“Can I fetch a drink to start you off?”

McNulty nodded again. “Tea please. English Breakfast.”

The waitress didn’t write it down. “Coming right up.”

McNulty watched her walk to the counter then looked out of the window. Trees along the Charles River Greenway shaded the back of the diner but sunshine streamed through the front windows across the Moody Street Bridge. The river was a mirror of shattered reflections. McNulty watched the world go by as if nothing had happened. For most of the people crossing the bridge nothing had. For anybody who had been in the faux courthouse, life would never be the same again. That’s what cops dealt with every day, life-changing events and tragedies. McNulty was out of practice.

He puffed out his cheeks and rubbed his face until his eyes watered. He pulled the menu toward him and told himself to cheer up. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t injured. Nobody he loved had been caught in the crossfire. That word brought him up short. Love. Maybe a bit strong for how he felt about Amy Moore but definitely true about his sister.

Susan Carter flooded into his mind despite trying to keep her out. The two of them had been been separated at birth and brought up in Crag View Children’s Home back in Yorkshire. She had been sold into adoption to America before McNulty even knew he had a sister. They had recently reconnected, but McNulty hadn’t known how to deal with it. Like everything else in his life that he couldn’t handle, he’d buried it. Until filming at an orphanage and a massacre painted red had brought it all back.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Amy slid into the bench seat opposite and spun the menu. “What do you recommend?”

McNulty looked into the dark, intelligent eyes. “Blusher No3 and a bulletproof vest.” Proving he’d rediscovered his sense of humor if not his tact.

They both ordered something big. This being America, that wasn’t difficult. All the portions were big. People had different reactions to disaster and shock. Some went all shivery and weak. McNulty became hungry. He was surprised that Amy reacted in the same way.

She spoke between mouthfuls. “I guess you dealt with stuff like this all the time. When you were a cop.”

McNulty took a drink of his tea. “I was in Vice Squad. It was more sex than violence.”

Amy stopped chewing. “I thought sex crimes were about violence more than sex.”

McNulty put his cup down and nodded. “With rape, yes. I dealt with sex for money. Massage parlours mainly.”

Amy kept her eyes on McNulty. “Not mass shootings then?”

McNulty shook his head. “It was back in England. We didn’t have mass shootings.” He looked deep into Amy’s eyes and tried to read her feelings. He’d never been very good at that. He let out a sigh. “When I saw the blood under the door—next to your chair…”

Amy reached across the table and rested a hand on his. She squeezed it gently and gave a soulful smile. He didn’t need to explain how he felt. “You came in with a fire extinguisher.”

McNulty smiled back then looked out of the window. The Francis Cabot Lowell Mill across the road reminded him of the Yorkshire Mills in Bradford, only cleaner and newer. The riverside walk followed the perimeter and had been turned into a park where the Charles River narrowed at the weir. Sunlight turned the trees into dappled greens and yellows. The sky was powder blue and cloudless. A mother and her two daughters set out a picnic in the park. Amy followed his gaze and appeared to read his mind.

“You haven’t seen much of her since Quincy.”

His sister again. The woman he’d last seen as a five-year-old until she found him thirty years later in Quincy, Massachusetts. Grown up now with