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

English.”
    â€œWhatever. Probably had a bit of Irish in him. Thick Mick thought he’d discovered India. Should have sent the rest of Ireland to Delhi.”
    â€œYeah. But where would the Boston Mafia be without the Irish?”
    â€œYou’ve been watching too many movies. Every fucking cop show, there are shootouts like it’s the OK Corral. Me? Never drawn my weapon in fifteen years. Boston Mafia? I’ve shit ’em.”
    Despite having just finished a soda, Grant filled a paper cup from the cooler. “If that’s the case, how come Whitey Bulger was number two on the FBI’s most wanted?”
    â€œFrank was number two? Who was number one?”
    â€œBin Laden. With all your OK Corrals, look how long it took you to catch either one of them.”
    â€œFuck you. With all your Peelers, you haven’t caught Jack the Ripper yet.”
    Grant laughed. “Touché.”
    He held his cup up and Kincaid tapped it with his. They both took a drink of cold, clear water. Kincaid calmed down a notch. “JP’s got vehicle B&Es going through the roof, here and West Roxbury. The mayor’s vowed to reduce crime, so we’ve got to get the figures down. Best way to do that is catch the little bastards or cook the figures. Trying to put together intelligence on the two we think it is, and what happens? Half the Irish population decides to square off and ruin my fucking day.”
    â€œWelcome to happy valley.”
    â€œFuckin’ shit-wankin’ motherfuckers.”
    The corridor fell silent. Grant waited a few seconds. “Feel better?”
    â€œMuch. What can I do for you today?”
    â€œYou know what. Cells are going to be heaving. Custody sergeant might need a bit of a nudge to let me use an interview room. I think you’re pretty good with the nudge.”
    Kincaid finished his water and screwed the paper cup into a ball. With the expression on his face, he looked just like Robert Shaw in Jaws . Grant was no Richard Dreyfuss, but not to be outdone he crushed his cup too. “We’re not going to be showing off war wounds now, are we?”
    â€œThought you were a typist.”
    â€œEven war zones need typists. Got a nasty paper cut once.”
    â€œDon’t show me. I might faint.”
    They threw their paper cups into the waste bin together. A dead heat. Pissing contest for today was a draw. Honors even. Kincaid headed back along the corridor to the stairs. “I’d better come down with you. O’Rourke’s a pussy compared to Rooney.”
    Grant followed. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
    If the front office was busy , then the custody area was bedlam. This wasn’t helped by the fact that JP’s prisoner facility was only intended for overnight detainees and minor infringements. Public disturbance was only a minor infringement until you multiplied it by ten. Throw in damage, arson, and assault, and it got busy real quick.
    Grant felt right at home. Apart from the village cop shop, all police stations were basically the same. The differences were merely cosmetic. They all had a public front counter. They all had a report- writing room for uniform patrol. Most had a CID/detectives office, and all had admin offices that trumped all of the above. When it came to the cell area, the differences were even more similar. British police, military police, American police—it was only the color scheme and the accents that changed. Everything else remained the same.
    Cells for the miscreants, the number depending on the size of the station. Livescan machine for fingerprinting the miscreants; ink and paper in the less affluent forces. Charge desk and booking-in counter, the same counter in most cell areas. And one man in charge of it all. The custody sergeant, or whatever they called him here in the Boston Police Department.
    What they called him here was Sergeant Rooney. “Get dem feckers out da way. Move along, people.