Irish Eyes by Mary Kay Andrews Read Free Book Online Page A

are heroes, all of them. And I want to put the scum who shot this officer on notice: ‘Whoever you are, don’t think you can get away with this cowardly act. You can run, but you can’t hide.’”
    The chief nodded her agreement. “Thank you, Mr. Viatkos. I’d like to announce at this time that Mr. Viatkos just informed me that he is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for this shooting.”
    Now it was the mayor’s turn to get into the act. Not surprising, since he rarely misses a photo opportunity.
    “And Chief,” the mayor said, gliding toward the microphones, turning his chosen profile toward the camera, “the city will add ten thousand dollars to that reward money. Our office also just contacted the governor’s office, and Governor Barnes has said that the state will match our reward money, bringing the total reward for this cowardly dog who attacks our law enforcement officers to thirty thousand dollars.”
    The cops in the room started clapping their hands and stomping their feet in approval.
    “About damn time,” someone called from the back of the room.
    “Any other questions?” the chief asked crisply, retaking command of the podium.
    “I got one.” A uniformed officer, short and balding with a craggy face and beaky nose, stepped out of the circle of reporters.
    The assistant chiefs looked startled. The chief looked pissed. “Yes, Officer?”
    “Officer Rakoczy,” the questioner said. “Ignatius R. Rakoczy. Chief, since you seem to be so concerned about this officer who was shot at his off-duty security job, I wondered if you could tell us why the city doesn’t pay our officers enough of a living wage that they wouldn’t have to work two and three other jobs just to make ends meet.”
    The chief’s jaw dropped. Her eyes narrowed.
    “Yeah,” somebody from the back called. “Ask her why we ain’t getting a raise again this year.”
    “Ask her how many jobs most of our guys work,” somebody else called. “Ask her how many jobs she has to work.”
    I looked over at Mackey, thought I saw a ghost of a smile flit across his lips.
    One of the assistant chiefs stepped forward then, stooped over to speak. “It is our understanding that Detective Deavers was not working at the Budget Bottle Shop when he visited there as a customer this evening. That’ll be all now.”
    More questions were shouted, but the brass were leaving, ignoring the ugly little scene that was threatening to develop.
    I turned around to say something to Mackey, but he was gone. I spotted him pushing through the swinging doors to the treatment area and I hurried to catch up.
    “Major,” I called.
    He turned around. “Garrity, go home.”
    “Where are you going?” I asked. “Has there been a change in Bucky’s condition? Is there any news?”
    “He just came out of surgery,” Mackey said. “Go home. Call Captain Dugan tomorrow.”

7
    I wandered out to the ambulance ramp. It was clogged with police cruisers and ambulances. Uniformed cops stood around talking and smoking. I recognized one of the EMS drivers as a guy I’d known years ago when I was still on the force. His name was McNabb.
    I went back inside the ER and fed three bucks’ worth of quarters into a vending machine for a pack of Marlboros. In a convenience store cigarettes cost about two fifty, but at Grady, I guess, they wanted to hammer in the message that smoking was bad for your health. Bad for your wealth, too.
    McNabb watched me approach, his eyes narrowed. He looked me up and down. Not in a sexual way. Anyway, the last thing I looked that night was sexy. I’m nearly forty, and on good days, when I’ve paid a little attention to my appearance, like, say, applying lipstick, mascara, and a little mousse to tame my unruly mop of nearly black hair, I’ve been told the effect is rather pleasing.
    Tonight, though, my hair was a mass of frizz from the rain and humidity, my makeup was