The Snake Tattoo by Linda Barnes Read Free Book Online Page A

best friend.
    I reviewed my notes and was struck by how little Jerry had actually revealed about Valerie. The girl existed in negatives. She wasn’t prom queen or valedictorian or most talented. I’d had to lead him, prompt him, for a physical description. She had brown hair. Light or dark? I don’t know. There’s like, this gold color in it. Her eyes were, like, this gray, or maybe green. She stood barely shoulder high, which I made out to be a five-foot-four, and maybe she was a little on the skinny side.
    She was quiet, shy, but she liked her drama class. She didn’t belong to any one group at school. You couldn’t classify her as a prep or a nerd or a jockette. She didn’t do drugs. Jerry was vehement about that. Maybe too vehement.
    I’d hardly learned anything about Valerie’s family. Damn that Jerry. The manner of his departure did not sit well with me.
    Elsie McLintock had been noted as somebody who’d have a picture of Valerie. That would help, what with the weakness of Jerry’s description.
    I went to the cupboard and checked out the cereal boxes. I wasn’t in the mood for Raisin Bran, and the freshness date on the Corn Flakes was long past.
    How do you describe people anyway? I could tell by his eyes, by his voice, that Jerry Toland cared about Valerie Haslam. How do you define the people you love? Paolina has brown hair, but “brown” says nothing about the shimmer and sway of it, the way a strand of it might curl against her cheek or tickle her nose. And if I tried to explain Paolina, I’d have to start with her laugh, a bubble of merriment that bursts when you least expect it. Paolina’s laughter seems like a special reward, reserved for me.
    Well, Paolina was in Colombia, to me as “missing” as Valeria Haslam.
    I ate breakfast. A bagel, cream cheese, coffee with cream and sugar. On a plate. In a cup. With silverware and a napkin. I’m profligate that way.
    â€œStart with Elsie.” Not me. I started with the phone. I called local hospitals, jails, and finally the morgue. No Valerie Haslams. No unidentified teenage female Caucasians. I dialed the girl’s house, because I figured her parents ought to know about the whole business. Maybe Valerie would answer and then I could rip up Jerry’s IOU along with the standard contract from he’d insisted on signing, legal or not. I got an answering machine with a gruff male voice. I left my name and number.
    The doorbell buzzed three times, the signal for Roz. I heard her flying down the steps, clattering in her tiny boots. She greeted the Twin Brothers with equal enthusiasm, as if she hadn’t just spent most of the night with one of them.
    It’s cowardly, I know, but I decided to flee before the destruction began. It was way too early for Mooney’s hooker to make an appearance in the Zone, so I decided to follow Jerry’s advice and start with Elsie. Why not? Valerie’s parents weren’t home, and kids have to be in school, right?
    On my way out the door the telephone rang. The stern voice on the other end identified herself as Mrs. Mooney, the lieutenant’s mother. She wanted to know if I could drop by the apartment. Anytime would be good. Now would be preferable.

CHAPTER 6
    Back when I was a cop, I used to drive by Mooney’s place in my cruiser and imagine what it was like inside. Now I parked my Toyota down the block and stared up at the brick building. Aside from a fanlight over the front door, the architect hadn’t gone in for many fancy touches. Four stories high, the dingy yellow brick square was peppered with rectangular windows. The three steps up to the door were plain concrete, flanked by two urns that should have held geraniums. The right-hand urn was broken, a section of lip still jagged. The left-hand one was whole, with a thin layer of dirt in the bottom.
    The Mooney clan used to live in South Boston, an Irish stronghold renowned