Measure of Darkness by Chris Jordan Read Free Book Online Page A

late is not ironic, it’s maddening or unfortunate. Red Sox beating Baltimore seventeen to ten and Don Orsillo announcing, ‘This is a real pitcher’s battle.’ That’s irony. Case closed.”
    Naomi rolls her eyes.

Chapter Six
Why Murder Is like Real Estate
    A n invitation to meet a source at a certain upscale lounge on Boylston Street means dressing for the occasion. In this case, for Jack Delancey, that means slightly down. He has changed into an off-the-rack JoS. A. Bank blue blazer, one that dry-cleans easily, and a pair of light, cotton twill dress slacks with knife-sharp creases. Top-Sider shoes, ever so slightly scuffed, because the outfit is already kind of boaty, so why not go all the way?
    Upon entering the retail area of the cigar store, Jack is waved past the bar and through into the lounge. Not a large venue by any means, but nicely furnished, and one of the few places in the city where a man—or a woman, for that matter—can legally enjoy an alcoholic beverage and a tobacco product at the same time, in a nonfurtive manner. The source awaits him, puffing on a fat Padron Maduro, a snifter of port at his side. He doesn’t bother to rise. “Hey, Jacko. Very sporty.”
    Jack adjusts his slacks and takes a seat in a very comfortable leather chair, not far from the fireplace, directly opposite the source. “Captain Tolliver, my pleasure.”
    Glenn Tolliver, a captain of detectives with the Massachusetts State Police, chuckles. “If we’re going to beformal, guess I’ll have to address you as Special Asshole in Charge.”
    â€œSpecial Asshole, Retired. Or resigned. I’m too young to retire, right?”
    â€œYou smokin’ tonight, kid?”
    â€œThat’s a Padron 1926 you got there? What is it, thirty-five bucks?”
    â€œA little more. Live a little—I already started your tab. The way I figure, if I’m going for the most expensive drink in the joint, I might as well have the most expensive cigar. Especially if my hotshot pal from the private sector is paying.”
    â€œSo, how is the port?”
    â€œExcellent. Dow’s 30 Year, Tawny. Maybe when I’m retired or resigned, or whatever it is you are, I’ll be able to afford a place like this. You think your boss would hire me?”
    â€œWouldn’t count on it.”
    â€œNot as long as she has you, is that it?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    Jack decides what the hell, he should be able to expense this somehow, so he orders what Tolliver is having. Soon enough they’re puffing like a couple of locomotives, snug in the luxuriant stink of fine tobacco, and Jack thinks, not for the first time, that sometimes in life you get what you pay for. Which in this case includes a high-ranking detective in the state police. No one has dared call him Piggy (on account of his slightly upturned nose) since his days as a linebacker for Boston College. In his mid-forties now, and somewhat florid of face, Tolliver still has the military bearing of a uniform trooper, and the cool, calculating eyes of a man who has observed the worst of human behavior, from careless murder to child abuse. As is so often the case,his response has been to develop a sense of humor so deep and dark and apparently careless that it can frighten civilians.
    â€œAh,” says Tolliver, exuding a plume of smoke from the pricey cigar. “Thank God the man got murdered on the left side of the river. If it was Boston we couldn’t touch it. Murder is like real estate: location, location, location.”
    â€œI’m sure the good professor was happy to oblige.”
    â€œPoor bastard. All those brains and they end up all over the floor.”
    â€œYou put eyes on the scene?”
    â€œAlways, Jack. I need to see it for myself. What better way to work up an appetite? So what’s your interest in the croak?”
    â€œCroak? Is that new?”
    â€œWord up, dude,”