A Criminal to Remember (A Monty Haaviko Thriller) Read Online Free

something. And, when I was in Drumheller, my best throw was clocked at seventy-six feet per second, which is not bad and it was bang on target too. In prison baseball was a way to deal with rage.
    And outside of prison? I wasn’t sure of the role of baseball.
    Without thinking I wound up and threw, and it felt like a winner as the ball came off my fingers with everything all loose in my shoulders and back.
    The cop had time to say, “We want a pitcher …” when the ball hit the six-inch steel paddle and dropped her into water.
    Behind me there were cheers, and I turned to find Elena and Alex with huge cones of cotton candy and Fred standing up in his stroller. “Good one!”
    He sounded very mature and Jake echoed him.
    I turned back to the tank and the cop adjusted her hat and got back onto the perch. I waited until she was comfortable and let her call out, “Lucky …” before I threw again and the cop was back in the water.
    Some days are like that.
    When I’d thrown my third ball and turned to go, the angry teenager who’d missed handed me three more and said, “Nail da bitch.” But he said it with a smile.
    And I did. Bang-bang-bang. And when those balls were gone Claire was there with three more and a big smile, and when those were gone Elena brought me more.
    It was a John Wayne day, everything went perfect. Just like in the war movies when the bad guy leans around the tree into your site. Just like when the girl turns right into your arms at the perfect moment. Just like when the arrow leaves the string and for a second the shooter and the target are the same thing. Just like when you draw the fourth jack and everyone is betting strong.
    Just like when you hit the bank on payday.
    Throw.
    Those were bad thoughts, so I focussed on the positive; I’d been out of prison more than a year and I wasn’t going back.
    Throw.
    I had a wife and a son and friends, even a job babysitting. All for the first time in my life—I was basically stable and (fairly) honest.
    Throw.
    Shit, even the cops here were finding this hilarious. Their laughter pulled me partially out of the groove and then I was back in, me and the ball. The ball and me.
    Throw.
    After about ten dunks the girl in the tank called it quits, laughing, and a fat sergeant in a black Speedo climbed on and clenched an unlit cigar between his teeth as he perched his hat just right on his bald head.
    “Ready?”
    “You betcha!”
    Throw and splash.
    I’d never thrown this well before. Claire bought a whole bucket of balls and Elena dragged it over to the line. Elena kissed my cheek and said, “Claire told me it’s your birthday in two days, so happy birthday, and many more.”
    And I just kept throwing.
    When I stopped throwing it was because my arm was numb, not because I missed. I don’t think I missed once.
    As I turned away there were people cheering and they rushed forward to try their luck. I turned and put my face right into the lens of a TV camera and found myself talking into a foam rubber microphone held by an incredibly short blond woman. She was very pretty with a wide smile that made me think of enthusiastic mattress games and no regrets on either side.
    “Hi! My name is Candy! And I’m from the station that never sleeps!”
    “How utterly wonderful for you.” I matched her enthusiasm with difficulty. I was clutching my right arm in my left, cradling it gently; I could feel a good ache. The ache in the muscle and not the bone. The sweet ache that meant tired and not hurt.
    “You just knocked cops into a dunk tank for more than an hour. How does that feel?”
    “Sore.” Rule number one about talking to journalists is don’t. Do not talk to them on the record, do not talk to them off the record, and do not talk to them. Do not talk to them.
    “Sorry to hear that! Are you burning off some rage?” Long pause and then she added, “Mr. Haaviko?”
    That stopped me. “How do you know my name?”
    Candy showed bright teeth and brought