Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) by Colin Campbell Read Free Book Online

wouldn’t be here now. If he’d been the kind of guy to sit back and do nothing, he wouldn’t have joined the army and he wouldn’t be a cop. His inspector was an okay boss, but the West Yorkshire Police was ruled by statistics and target figures. Edicts handed down from on high. It had nothing to do with right and wrong anymore, merely accountability. Grant couldn’t play that game. Accountability for Grant was catching the bad guys and putting them in prison.
    Sometimes accountability was under his knee.
    He slapped the shadowy face awake and leaned forward. “You know, if you’re going to rob a fella, you really need to get in shape.”
    The man’s eyes were cloudy with pain. Grant didn’t wait for a response. “And pay attention to the little things. Target acquisition. Surprise attack. Pick on somebody a bit smaller. Don’t split your forces.”
    Grant slapped him again for emphasis. “Means stick together.”
    The man shifted under Grant’s knee, so Grant leaned in again. The extra weight made him groan, but he didn’t speak. Grant kept an eye on the mouth of the alley. Nobody came rushing past. Nobody had called the police. The other half of the attacking force was lost and confused. Grant kept his tone conversational. “That’s assuming you’re after my wallet. If it’s an anti-English thing, I’m a Yorkshireman. Different breed. If it’s a cop thing, you’re lucky I’m on vacation.”
    There was another possibility, but he didn’t voice it. Could these two have been trying to rough him up to stop him interviewing Freddy Sullivan tomorrow? If so, what the fuck was Freddy mixed up in? Grant took five dollars out of his wallet and tucked it under the scuffed collar. “Get something for the swelling. Pharmacy’s next door.”
    He stood up and backwards, out of the wounded tiger’s kicking arc. There were no post-action shakes. There was no adrenaline rush. There never was. It was a bonus of Grant’s calm approach. He glanced down at his fallen adversary, then out of the alley. The street was quiet. Just to be on the safe side, he went out of the other end of the alley and skirted the rear of the shops. Jamaica Pond was a dark presence in the distance to his left. Grant knew it was there but couldn’t see it through the network of back streets that filled the space between the hotel and the lake. The family homes of the better-off. Jamaica Plain. The face of Middle America. Peaceful America.
    The sirens and the flames and the fighting didn’t start until he was back at the Seaverns Hotel and had nothing to do with him—or so he thought. Tomorrow he’d get the interview out of the way, then chill out for a couple of days before heading home. He was looking forward to a more peaceful day. As he climbed into bed and blocked out the sirens, he didn’t know it would prove to be anything but. He’d bought the map. He’d gotten laid. Now it was time for the third part of his Boston trifecta.

seven
    The desk sergeant didn’t need to ignore Grant for effect this time. O’Rourke had his hands full with the throng of bodies milling around the reception counter. He was talking to a miniature Chinese man who could barely see over the desktop. A second officer was talking to an agitated woman. Everyone else was waiting their turn and didn’t seem happy about it. The place was a madhouse.
    The smell of smoke was even stronger in here than outside, obviously brought in on the clothes of Jamaica Plain’s citizens. Grant didn’t think that would carry much weight with O’Rourke. He’d seen at least three marked units parked along the street with smashed windscreens or replacement wheels, the originals presumably slashed during the disturbance. If BPD policy was anything like West Yorkshire Police, they wouldn’t classify it as a riot until it was no longer