murder.”
“Yeah, well, he’s in my apartment now, and I haven’t seen any ID.”
“Jay,” Pat said with a nervous laugh, “I know you got a good bump on your head, but there’s no reason to be rude.”
Agitated more than offended, McGreevy whipped out his ID badge from his inner breast pocket and shoved it in my face.
Wallace D. J. McGreevy, City of Concord, Detective.
I’d heard before that you should never trust a man with two first names. Wasn’t sure where conventional wisdom stood on three.
He flipped the wallet back just as fast, returning it inside his crisp overcoat. “Let’s try this again. Have you spoken with your brother?”
I shook my head.
McGreevy resumed inspecting the damage, room to room, kicking aside my belongings distastefully like they were steaming turds.
“You sure you didn’t get
any
look at who did this to you?” Pat asked.
“Not really. I mean, I saw an arm swing at me, but I couldn’t see who it was attached to. Must’ve been hiding in the closet.” I paused a second. “Why are you guys even here?”
“Hank heard a commotion out back,” said Pat, gesturing with his thumb. “Whoever knocked you out made a helluva racket running down those old creaky steps. Hank found you passed out on the floor and called us. Turley’s downstairs with him now, to see if they broke into the garage too, or if they were just targeting you.”
Targeting me? I remembered the truck following me from the bar.
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I left Jenny here when I went to the Dubliner.”
Pat raised his bushy white brows.
“It’s not like that,” I said. “Can you check on her, though?”
“Ramon,” Pat called to the Puerto Rican kid. “Have Claire call and check on Jenny Price.” He turned back to me. “You sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” I shook him off. As the kid was walking out, Hank came stomping up the steps.
“Anything missing from the garage?” Pat asked him.
“Locked up tighter’n a drum,” said Hank. “You okay, Jay? You know who did this?” He paused, shifting uncomfortably.
It was Pat who finally asked outright. “Think this could’ve been your brother?”
That caught the attention of McGreevy, who stalked out of my bedroom, waiting for my response.
I made for the kitchen, found my coat on the table, flipped it over and pulled out my Marlboro Lights.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“How would you know?” asked McGreevy. “You just said you didn’t see anyone.”
“Because Chris wouldn’t sucker punch me in the dark. He might break in and steal something, but he’s not going to ambush and assault his own brother.” Man, this guy was rubbing me the wrong way.
I didn’t see any reason to come clean about the bikers at that computer shop or the mysterious phone call or any missing hard drive. I might’ve told Pat, had we been alone. But I didn’t trust this McGreevy. I had no idea why a detective would be up from Concord, hanging out with our yokel police department and probing the whereabouts of a junkie, even one wanted for questioning in a murder. That’s not how we did things up here. His involvement had set off my bullshit meter. Even if I couldn’t figure out exactly what that meter was reading, other than he sure as hell didn’t have my brother’s best interest at heart. And I knew something else: this wasn’t a random robbery. For as agitated as I’d been earlier, thinking Charlie was getting swept up in the drama and that Fisher’s involvement was completely unnecessary, I was suddenly glad I’d made that trip to the Dubliner. I didn’t have a whole lot of faith in the cops.
I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and pressed the cold aluminum against the back of my skull, where a sizable knot had blossomed.
Ramon returned upstairs.
“Miss Price is fine,” the kid said through a heavy accent. “Left here around eleven.” Anticipating the follow-up, he added, “Didn’t see anything.”
Pat
“Yeah, well, he’s in my apartment now, and I haven’t seen any ID.”
“Jay,” Pat said with a nervous laugh, “I know you got a good bump on your head, but there’s no reason to be rude.”
Agitated more than offended, McGreevy whipped out his ID badge from his inner breast pocket and shoved it in my face.
Wallace D. J. McGreevy, City of Concord, Detective.
I’d heard before that you should never trust a man with two first names. Wasn’t sure where conventional wisdom stood on three.
He flipped the wallet back just as fast, returning it inside his crisp overcoat. “Let’s try this again. Have you spoken with your brother?”
I shook my head.
McGreevy resumed inspecting the damage, room to room, kicking aside my belongings distastefully like they were steaming turds.
“You sure you didn’t get
any
look at who did this to you?” Pat asked.
“Not really. I mean, I saw an arm swing at me, but I couldn’t see who it was attached to. Must’ve been hiding in the closet.” I paused a second. “Why are you guys even here?”
“Hank heard a commotion out back,” said Pat, gesturing with his thumb. “Whoever knocked you out made a helluva racket running down those old creaky steps. Hank found you passed out on the floor and called us. Turley’s downstairs with him now, to see if they broke into the garage too, or if they were just targeting you.”
Targeting me? I remembered the truck following me from the bar.
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I left Jenny here when I went to the Dubliner.”
Pat raised his bushy white brows.
“It’s not like that,” I said. “Can you check on her, though?”
“Ramon,” Pat called to the Puerto Rican kid. “Have Claire call and check on Jenny Price.” He turned back to me. “You sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” I shook him off. As the kid was walking out, Hank came stomping up the steps.
“Anything missing from the garage?” Pat asked him.
“Locked up tighter’n a drum,” said Hank. “You okay, Jay? You know who did this?” He paused, shifting uncomfortably.
It was Pat who finally asked outright. “Think this could’ve been your brother?”
That caught the attention of McGreevy, who stalked out of my bedroom, waiting for my response.
I made for the kitchen, found my coat on the table, flipped it over and pulled out my Marlboro Lights.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“How would you know?” asked McGreevy. “You just said you didn’t see anyone.”
“Because Chris wouldn’t sucker punch me in the dark. He might break in and steal something, but he’s not going to ambush and assault his own brother.” Man, this guy was rubbing me the wrong way.
I didn’t see any reason to come clean about the bikers at that computer shop or the mysterious phone call or any missing hard drive. I might’ve told Pat, had we been alone. But I didn’t trust this McGreevy. I had no idea why a detective would be up from Concord, hanging out with our yokel police department and probing the whereabouts of a junkie, even one wanted for questioning in a murder. That’s not how we did things up here. His involvement had set off my bullshit meter. Even if I couldn’t figure out exactly what that meter was reading, other than he sure as hell didn’t have my brother’s best interest at heart. And I knew something else: this wasn’t a random robbery. For as agitated as I’d been earlier, thinking Charlie was getting swept up in the drama and that Fisher’s involvement was completely unnecessary, I was suddenly glad I’d made that trip to the Dubliner. I didn’t have a whole lot of faith in the cops.
I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and pressed the cold aluminum against the back of my skull, where a sizable knot had blossomed.
Ramon returned upstairs.
“Miss Price is fine,” the kid said through a heavy accent. “Left here around eleven.” Anticipating the follow-up, he added, “Didn’t see anything.”
Pat
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