Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📕

Carbone, flushed an ominous crimson, I saw Julie, the receptionist, pick up a pen and draw it across her throat. So I knew I was about to be declared dead. But since noncompliance with official department guidelines was standard operating procedure with me, I had no idea what I was going to get killed for this time. Then Carbone jerked his thumb toward the captain’s office; I knew it had to do with the Spencer case—and I knew it was not going to be a routine reprimand.

And seeing Frank Shea, Captain Shea, tie knotted tight, jacket buttoned, jabbing his index finger toward a chair was not exactly reassuring. Despite the American and Suffolk County flags in back of him, Shea usually looked more like a lounge singer than a cop: a lock of Brylcreemed hair trailing over his forehead, his tie hanging unknotted, his shirt half unbuttoned, displaying a huge gold Saint Michael’s medal, a crucifix, a long, curvy tooth from what must have been some large, pissed-off animal, plus three chest 258

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hairs. He put on his jacket only to see the commissioner and for funerals.

Carbone took a chair and put it beside Shea’s desk, so they were both arrayed against me. “What’s up?” I asked.

“I warned you, Brady,” Shea responded.

“About what?”

“You know! Look at you!” Okay, I’d been running, then sitting in the car with the top down, thinking about Bonnie.

So maybe I was on the verge of sunstroke; I’d glanced in the rearview mirror just a couple of minutes before, in the parking lot outside Headquarters, and noticed that under the sun-burn, my skin was gray. And I had a headache and couldn’t stop sweating. But I didn’t look that bad. “Look at you!”

Shea bellowed.

“What? The department has some new good-grooming directive?”

“Fuck you and die, Brady!”

I peered over at Carbone. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Steve.” Now that Shea was playing bad cop, Carbone could get compassionate. He sounded like a cross between shrink and priest. “Robby told us.”

“Told you what?”

Shea picked up a paperweight and slammed it down on his desk. “That you wouldn’t get a warrant!”

“Yeah? Well, goddamn right. I’m not ready to arrest yet.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Shea demanded.

“We’ve got enough evidence to send her away for life. She knows it! She’s gonna flee!”

“Where?”

“Shut up! She’s gonna flee while you’re babbling theories about Lindsay Keefe!”

“Listen, we’ve been…a little hasty. My fault, 260 / SUSAN ISAACS

probably more than anybody else’s. But we’ve got to think about Lindsay. And Fat Mikey too. Shea, just cool it a second and—”

“You bastard, I listened to you once.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember? You told me how you were going to stay sober.”

“Well, fuck you. I am sober.”

“Robby Kurz says you’re not.”

“I’m drinking? Bullshit.”

“Robby was genuinely upset. It killed him to tell me.” Shea paused for a second. “He swore it was true! Robby saw how I kept shaking my head, not wanting to believe it, and he swore. Vodka. Drunks think there’s no odor, but believe me, there’s an odor. I’ve smelled it on people, and he said the smell was rising off your skin.”

“Robby can take a goddamn fifth of Smirnoff’s and shove it up his lying ass. Listen, we had a few words. Maybe I flew off the handle. But to say I was drinking is such slander—”

“He smelled it. You were weaving when you walked, and—”

“No!”

“He realized it two days ago. His only mistake was holding out, trying to protect you.”

I really thought I was going to be sick. I felt the acid burn of vomit in my throat. I got very quiet. “You think I’m drunk now?”

Carbone looked sad for me. Shea said, “Stinko.”

“I want one of you to walk over to the lab with me. I want a Breathalyzer test.” They shot a glance at each other; they knew you could only get accurate readings for about two hours after drinking. So I added: “Blood, urine too. Right now. I want you both to understand: I’ve been sober for almost four years.”

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“You’re all red!” Shea accused. “You’re sweating like a pig.”

“Why the hell didn’t you ask me how come? Don’t you think you owe me that? You want to know why I look like I’m going to get sick?” I thought fast. “I’ve been out at Old Town Pond in Southampton—less than a quarter of a mile from Sy’s house—walking over every goddamn inch of marshland. You know and I know that we need the weapon, and that rat-ass Robby Kurz—who’s been in charge of finding it—has been sitting on his behind, shoving Danish into his mouth, writing his acceptance speech for his commendation, instead of looking for the goddamn .22. Excuse me: writing his speech and making up lies.”

“You’re accusing him of lying?” Shea asked, with a nasty, unamused chuckle.

“Yeah.”

“Why would he lie, Brady?”

“Because he’s a fanatical, ambitious, self-righteous turd.

You know what he’s like when he goes after somebody. He wears blinders; he refuses to see reality. And he’s lying because he knows if he can put the lid on this fast, he can make sergeant by next month—and be first on line for your chair when you retire. Plus he’s a sneaky ass-kisser who doesn’t like the way I operate and wants me out of the way. He wants me out of the way so I won’t stop him from arresting her.

Because I’ve got to tell you, Frank, I might stop him. I have real doubts, and if we false-arrest her, she can make trouble.

She has a big mouth.” Shea and Carbone glanced at each other. I went on: “And Robby wants me out of the way because Bonnie was my idea to begin with—as Ray can attest—and he doesn’t want me to get any credit.” All Shea did was sneer. Carbone hung his head. He really liked me.

He wanted to believe me. But he’d had too much Psychology 205; he knew alcoholics