Dancer in the Flames Read Online Free Page A

sucked up every molecule of courage from his small reservoir. ‘Ya know, Boots,’ he finally said, ‘you been placin’ bets with me for a long time. If that should come out . . .’
    Disappointed, Boots glanced around the kitchen, at what he knew to be Angie Drago’s creation: the yellow walls and counter tops, the pale red curtains over the windows, the dark green cabinets, an off-white linoleum floor speckled with mica. Behind Drago’s head, a religious calendar displayed the risen Christ. No more than a yard away, a wall clock bore the portrait of a smiling Minnie Mouse.
    ‘You sealed your own fate,’ Boots told Drago, ‘when you arranged your sister’s body the way you did. You can’t fix something like that, not after the media gets wind of it. In addition to the Crime Scene Unit, there’s an inspector from Borough Command and a prosecutor downstairs. They’re gonna hold a press conference later on, after you’ve been arrested.’
    Boots sipped at his coffee, trying to cool it down even as he took it into his mouth. Still, it was too hot and he burned his tongue. ‘Shit,’ he said.
    ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
    ‘It means,’ Boots explained as he set down the mug, ‘that I wouldn’t save your ass even if I could. It means you have to pay for what you did to Angie, before and after her death.’ Boots flashed his here-and-gone smile as he pushed the chair away and stood up. ‘That’s just the way it is,’ he said. ‘No hard feelings.’
    Drago motioned for Boots to sit back down. ‘Awright, forget about the threat, which I didn’t mean anyway. I’m not gonna rat you out. I got somethin’ much bigger to trade.’ The bookie welcomed Littlewood’s scrutiny. He’d finally gotten the bastard’s attention. ‘I’m not gonna beat around the bush. I have information – which I am willin’ to share under the right conditions – regardin’ Christopher Parker, the cop who got killed down by the bridge three weeks ago.’
    Drago lit a cigarette, then blew a stream of smoke over the cop’s head. Boots inhaled as it went by, sucking the air down into his lungs. ‘Are you tellin’ me,’ he asked, ‘that you know the identity of the shooter? And think twice before you answer. You lie about somethin’ like this, you’re gonna think you were sightseein’ in Hiroshima on the day they dropped the bomb.’
    ‘Boots, do I look like a schmuck?’ Drago scrutinized the detective’s features, one by one, finally deciding that the guy was such a hard read because he was so ordinary. The nose just a little too short, the mouth a little too pinched, the blue eyes a little too narrow, the chin a little too prominent – Boots was neither ugly nor handsome, nor remarkable in any way.
    ‘I don’t know who pulled the trigger,’ Drago finally admitted. ‘I’m not makin’ that claim. But I do know somebody who watched the hit go down. And that’s what it was, Boots. A hit.’
    Boots nodded once, then rose to his feet. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’ll relay the message. But I’ve got one piece of advice, which you should really take to heart.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘When the time comes, show remorse.’
    Boots set the wheels in motion by reporting Drago’s gambit to his immediate superior, Lieutenant Carl Levine, commander of the Sixty-Fourth Precinct’s detective squad. Levine took the offer to Inspector Mack Corcoran, who commanded all of Brooklyn’s detectives. Corcoran huddled briefly with a pair of Homicide detectives, Artie Farrahan and Thelonius Tolliver, before approaching Assistant District Attorney Thelma Blount. Another discussion followed, after which Blount, Corcoran, Farrahan and Tolliver went upstairs to interview Frankie Drago.
    Boots watched the posse mount the stairs before wandering into the living room where he found his boss sitting on the couch. Lieutenant Carl Levine was a short man with a thick neck that ran straight up into his round skull. His bony jaw was large