The Strangler by William Landay Read Free Book Online Page B

connections, the complexities. Why on earth had Walter fucking Cronkite come to Boston? Why the key shop? Why him? Joe thought he had it sometimes, that the truth was about to come shivering through, but it never quite did. So the answers hovered out there in the air somewhere, just out of sight. He was like a kid. He could hear it in the way they spoke to him, that pizzicato pick-pick-pick tone the deputy had lectured him with—
Detective Daley, you’ve embarrassed this en-tire department in front of the en-tire country.
It was precisely the pissy tone Joe used with his own kid when he did bad. Now the adults were meeting behind closed doors to pass sentence on
him
. Well, so what could he do about it? He was not Michael or Ricky or Conroy. Guys like Joe had to just hold on to what they knew, cling to the catechism that had worked for cops for a hundred years. Rule one: Keep your mouth shut when you’re supposed to keep your mouth shut. He leaned his forehead against the wall, mashed it against the dusty ancient plaster. What he wouldn’t give to have Mikey’s brain just for an hour or two, just to see things clear, to figure out what he should do, then he could happily go back to just bulling his way ahead without all this worry and frustration. The decision, the right decision, would already be made. But he would never have that kind of peace. Joe was forty-two; he was what he was.
    Conroy came out of the room and marched up to Joe with his arms extended in a conciliatory way. A reassuring smile. Everything was taken care of.
    “How bad?”
    “Not so bad, boyo, not so bad. You’ll keep your job—”
    “My job! Jesus, Bren! For Christ’s sake, I’m just the fucking errand boy.”
    “Keep your voice down—”
    “Half the department’s on the sleeve,
you
know that!”
    “This is the New Boston. Maybe you haven’t heard.”
    “What fucking new Boston?”
    “Just keep your voice down, Joe. You’ll keep your job and your lieutenant’s rank. But you’re off the detective bureau.”
    Joe shook his head and sniffed at the injustice of it.
    “Joe, what did you expect? You’re lucky you’re still in Station Sixteen. You know where they wanted to send you? Roxbury. How would you like that, chasing spooks all day?”
    “Jesus, Brendan. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
    “Show up in uniform for last half tomorrow.”
    “You gotta be shitting me.”
    “Be smart, son. Report in uniform for last half tomorrow.”
    “And do what? Walk a beat?”
    “Yes.”
    “For how long? What, am I gonna walk a fucking beat the rest of my life?”
    “No. You’re going to be patient and do what I tell you. You’re going to take the deal and lie low, play the game. This is just politics. It’ll blow over. Remember, boyo”—Brendan hoisted a thumb over his shoulder toward the hearing room—“they come and go; we stay. You think your old man and I didn’t look out for each other?”
    Joe shook his head. Whatever.
    “Answer me.”
    “Yes.”
    “Alright, then. What are you going to do tomorrow?”
    “Show up in uniform for last half.”
    “Attsaboy.”
    “Brendan. When am I gonna be a detective again?” Conroy patted Joe’s meaty cheek. “When the time comes.”

8
    A little before eleven, the cold deepened. A frigid current streamed past. Long strings of Christmas lights stirred on snow-shagged trees.
    The baby Jesus trembled in his wheelbarrow. Long way from Bethlehem.
    Joe stomped his feet, paced in circles. His shoes were the only thing that fit him. His pants and shirt collar were unbuttoned. The whole damn uniform had shrunk. He’d have to ask Kat to let the pants out a little. The wool overcoat was good, at least. But the exposed parts, his nose and ears and eyes, were singed. He kept an eye on the Union Club across Park Street. They’d got to know him there the past few nights, and they were pretty good about letting him come in out of the cold. The bartender even stood him a nip before he closed