A Simple Act of Violence by R.J. Ellory Read Free Book Online Page A

is—’
    ‘The man himself,’ Miller finished for him.
    ‘Very good, Detective Miller. You win the Kewpie doll.’
     
     
     
     
    M y name is John Robey, and I know everything you could ever wish to know about Catherine Sheridan.
    I know the street where she lives, the view from the back yard. I know what she likes to eat and where she buys her groceries. I know the perfume she wears, and which colors she feels will suit her. I know her age, her place of birth, the way she feels about many little things, and why . . .
    But I know other things as well. The important things. The things that frightened her. The things that caused her to wonder if she’d made the right decisions. What she believed would happen if she got those decisions wrong.
    I know the mundane, but also the complex, the simple as well as the elaborate.
    I know the shadows that follow as well as those that wait.
    And I have my own shadows, my own fears, my own small secrets.
    Such as my name, for my name wasn’t always John Robey . . .
    But such details do not matter now. Such details we will speak of when there is time.
    For these brief moments I shall remain John Robey, and I will tell you what I know.
    I know about love and disappointment, about heartbreak and disillusionment. I understand that time serves to dull the razor’s edge of loss until memories no longer cut so deep, they merely bruise with the repetition of trying to forget.
    I know about promises kept and promises broken.
    I know about Catherine Sheridan and Darryl King and Natasha Joyce. I know of Natasha’s daughter, Chloe.
    I know about Margaret Mosley; I know her apartment on Bates and First. I know the bay window with the sunny aspect that looks out towards Florida Avenue.
    I know Ann Rayner, the basement of her house off of Patterson Street NE.
    I know Barbara Lee, her corner house on Morgan and Jersey, no more than five blocks south east of where I now stand.
    I know that I am a tired man. Not because I have not slept. These days I sleep too much. No, it is not that kind of tired.
    I am exhausted from carrying these things.
    There is The Quiet Half. We all possess a Quiet Half. Here are our sins and transgressions, our crimes and iniquities, our lapses of reason and faith and honesty, our vices and misdeeds and every time we fell from grace . . .
    The Quiet Half haunts; it follows like those proverbial shadows, and then it waits with unsurpassed patience and fortitude. What do they say? Ultimately everyone dies from wrongdoings and shortness of breath.
    I carry enough for one man. Truth? I carry enough for three or five or seven.
    Caught up with me I suppose, and when I turn to look at my own Quiet Ha lf I realize that there is only one way this thing can be exorcised.
    By telling the truth. By carrying the light of truth into the very darkest places, and not caring who or what is illuminated on the way.
    In that moment it will all come to an end.
    Only one thing I can do . . . between now and then I can carry the light. Expose the shadows. Show the world what’s there.
    They don’t want to see it - never have, never will.
    Too late. They’re going to see it anyway.

FOUR
    Miller and Roth began work that afternoon, Miller already feeling a sense of urgency regarding what lay ahead. Killarney had finished his briefing, answered questions, and then Lassiter hammered them about results. Killarney would be tracking with them, he would not interfere, but he would be kept apprised of their progress.
    Miller’s initial thought - that he did not wish to become embroiled in some lengthy, high-profile murder case - had been replaced with a feeling that this was perhaps the best thing he could do. Already it had begun to pull his attention away from recent events.
    The words Killarney had uttered were still clear in Miller’s mind as he and Roth left the Second and made their way toward Columbia Street. Roth had with him the picture of Catherine Sheridan. The image, taken from her