take a switch to, young lady!â he muttered aloud.
Well, that was the hell of it. Spencer was a grown-up. He couldnât take a switch to her. He couldnât insist that she move in with him for a while. He couldnât force sense into her, couldnât tell her that it would be better for her to live a full life rather than discover who had killed Danny if it meant dying herself.
He read the article again. He would talk to David Delgado later, but for the moment, he wanted to read between the lines again. He did. And decided maybe it wouldnât matter if he talked to David later or not. He could pretty much tell the story.
Spencer had somehow gotten wind that the grave-robbing ghouls might be coming to Dannyâs cemetery. Sheâd gone, and David had been on the job. Just like heâd promised, however grudgingly. He hadnât wanted to follow Spencer, and Sly was no fool; he knew why. Some things just didnât go away when you grew up. You could get old, you could think yourself past the hurts and the desires that had plagued you when you were young, but they were still there, lurking in the heart. No, you just didnât get past some things, no matter what.
Maybe that was bad. And maybe that was good. Maybe it meant that whether he liked it or not, David would stick to Spencer like glue.
The phone started ringing. Sly rose to answer it, certain that he knew who was calling.
Jerry Fried, Danny Huntingtonâs last partner in the homicide division, sat down at his desk and stared at the memo in front of him. At fifty-five, he was getting too old for this shit. He ran his fingers through his cap of snow-white hair and hunched over, thinking he needed to exercise more. Walk, at least. He still cut a fairly decent figure in and out of uniform, but it seemed to get harder and harder. His paunch was threatening to protrude over his belt.
He hadnât been on duty last night; he hadnât heard a thing about the graveyard arrest until heâd come in this morning. Now everyone was talking about it. And there was this damned memo on his desk from the lieutenant.
So they had Delia in custody now. And Dannyâs widow had something to do with it. Tall, slim, elegant, Mrs. Huntington had managed to get herself into the right cemetery when the police hadnât been able to add up two and two and get four. Why couldnât she believe that the police always took care of their own? And why couldnât she just stay out of all this? Keep out of harmâs way? If she kept messing where she shouldnât be, there was going to be trouble. Big trouble. And she was going to be in danger.
Danny Huntingtonâ¦Heâd been dead more than a year now, but he still seemed to haunt Jerryâs every waking moment. Danny had been so damned popular. The rich boy, playing cop. Because he wanted to know the streets, real life. Everyone had liked Danny. Everyone. The politicians. The police brass. The guys on the force. The frigging crooks had even liked Danny. And Danny had known things he hadnât thought to share with his own partner!
Jerry groaned and put his head down on his desk, spilling his morning coffee as he did.
He sat up, swearing at Dannyâs widow once again. Danny Huntington just couldnât seem to stay buried.
Â
Cecily Monteith lounged in the sitting room adjacent to her bedroom, sipping the coffee that Maria, her maid, had just set on the table along with her toastâdone well, but not burned, just touched with margarine, not butter, the crusts carefully trimmed offâand read the paper with a growing sense of dread and unease.
Jared, in a tailored shirt, stood in the doorway, slipping a tie around his neck, struggling with the knot, then scowling and swearing profusely. âYouâd think Sly Montgomery would come to terms with the modern world. Itâs hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk today. Everyone has gone casual, but that old man still
Well, that was the hell of it. Spencer was a grown-up. He couldnât take a switch to her. He couldnât insist that she move in with him for a while. He couldnât force sense into her, couldnât tell her that it would be better for her to live a full life rather than discover who had killed Danny if it meant dying herself.
He read the article again. He would talk to David Delgado later, but for the moment, he wanted to read between the lines again. He did. And decided maybe it wouldnât matter if he talked to David later or not. He could pretty much tell the story.
Spencer had somehow gotten wind that the grave-robbing ghouls might be coming to Dannyâs cemetery. Sheâd gone, and David had been on the job. Just like heâd promised, however grudgingly. He hadnât wanted to follow Spencer, and Sly was no fool; he knew why. Some things just didnât go away when you grew up. You could get old, you could think yourself past the hurts and the desires that had plagued you when you were young, but they were still there, lurking in the heart. No, you just didnât get past some things, no matter what.
Maybe that was bad. And maybe that was good. Maybe it meant that whether he liked it or not, David would stick to Spencer like glue.
The phone started ringing. Sly rose to answer it, certain that he knew who was calling.
Jerry Fried, Danny Huntingtonâs last partner in the homicide division, sat down at his desk and stared at the memo in front of him. At fifty-five, he was getting too old for this shit. He ran his fingers through his cap of snow-white hair and hunched over, thinking he needed to exercise more. Walk, at least. He still cut a fairly decent figure in and out of uniform, but it seemed to get harder and harder. His paunch was threatening to protrude over his belt.
He hadnât been on duty last night; he hadnât heard a thing about the graveyard arrest until heâd come in this morning. Now everyone was talking about it. And there was this damned memo on his desk from the lieutenant.
So they had Delia in custody now. And Dannyâs widow had something to do with it. Tall, slim, elegant, Mrs. Huntington had managed to get herself into the right cemetery when the police hadnât been able to add up two and two and get four. Why couldnât she believe that the police always took care of their own? And why couldnât she just stay out of all this? Keep out of harmâs way? If she kept messing where she shouldnât be, there was going to be trouble. Big trouble. And she was going to be in danger.
Danny Huntingtonâ¦Heâd been dead more than a year now, but he still seemed to haunt Jerryâs every waking moment. Danny had been so damned popular. The rich boy, playing cop. Because he wanted to know the streets, real life. Everyone had liked Danny. Everyone. The politicians. The police brass. The guys on the force. The frigging crooks had even liked Danny. And Danny had known things he hadnât thought to share with his own partner!
Jerry groaned and put his head down on his desk, spilling his morning coffee as he did.
He sat up, swearing at Dannyâs widow once again. Danny Huntington just couldnât seem to stay buried.
Â
Cecily Monteith lounged in the sitting room adjacent to her bedroom, sipping the coffee that Maria, her maid, had just set on the table along with her toastâdone well, but not burned, just touched with margarine, not butter, the crusts carefully trimmed offâand read the paper with a growing sense of dread and unease.
Jared, in a tailored shirt, stood in the doorway, slipping a tie around his neck, struggling with the knot, then scowling and swearing profusely. âYouâd think Sly Montgomery would come to terms with the modern world. Itâs hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk today. Everyone has gone casual, but that old man still
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