Dancer in the Flames Read Online Free Page B

and his broad nose short, leaving his mouth an isolated slash of pink midway between these two landmarks. In his mid-fifties, Levine was fast coming to the end of a long career. Under ordinary circumstances, he might have been proud of that career – the Detective Bureau was a prestige assignment for any lieutenant. But Levine’s wife had deserted him more than a decade before and his two children were grown and gone. With no replacements in sight and no significant hobbies, retirement was little more than a black hole into which he would pour the remainder of his days. Levine’s wistful eyes reflected this truth. Among the detectives at the Six-Four, his nickname was Lieutenant Sorrowful.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ Boots said after a moment. ‘I’ll have a confession out of Frankie Drago within an hour.’
    ‘You?’
    ‘Frankie will never talk to Corcoran.’
    ‘And why is that?’
    ‘Because Frankie’s been around the block. It’d be different, of course, if he knew the name of the shooter. Then he’d have to testify and the state would have to be nice to him. But the way it is, once he reveals the name of this witness, the criminal justice system will no longer need his services. That’s why Frankie’s gonna want somebody in the room he can trust.’
    For once, Levine’s eyes grew merry as a deep chuckle rumbled up from somewhere in his gut. He and Boots had been working together for many years.
    ‘And that somebody he can trust would be you?’
    ‘What can I say, boss? By now, the poor jerk’s gotta be desperate.’
    Fifteen minutes later, Boots heard the posse’s footsteps on the stairs. He turned in time to watch Inspector Mack Corcoran, with Blount and the two detectives bringing up the rear, march into the living room.
    ‘He’ll only talk to you,’ Corcoran announced. ‘He thinks you’re his friend.’
    Corcoran was in his mid-forties, a rising star who’d jumped from captain to inspector as if the rank of deputy inspector didn’t exist. Boots let his gaze travel past Corcoran’s slash of a mouth, past the cold, suspicious eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses, to the full head of brown hair that crowned his scalp. Dye job or a top-of-the-line rug? Boots couldn’t decide.
    ‘Don’t test my patience, Detective.’
    ‘If you want the name of the witness,’ Boots finally said, ‘I can get it for you. No problem. And while I’m at it, I’ll have Frankie confess to whatever he actually did to his sister.’
    Corcoran glanced at his two Homicide detectives, but they remained impassive. Both were acquainted with Boots Littlewood, having made use of him from time to time when searching for a witness or a suspect in the Six-Four. Boots knew everybody, had enough snitches to fill a high school gym and was generally cooperative. Alienating his affections was not on their agenda.
    Halfway up the flight of stairs separating the apartments of Frankie Drago and his mother, Assistant District Attorney Thelma Blount abruptly sat down, turning to face Boots Littlewood in the process. She rummaged in her bag for a moment, then removed a thin silver flask and unscrewed the top before taking a quick chug. Finally, she thrust the flask at Boots.
    ‘You have a bet on the game?’ she asked.
    ‘Don’t remind me. The last thing I need is to get aggravated again.’
    ‘Boots, I’m trying to be sympathetic.’
    ‘I don’t want sympathy. I want the umpires to get the calls right. I won that game twice over.’
    Boots took the tiniest of sips, barely enough to wet his tongue. Shortly after Blount’s divorce became final two years before, he and Thelma had passed a frenzied weekend at a honeymoon resort in the Pocono Mountains, virtually all of it on a heart-shaped water bed. They’d emerged from their tryst good friends, though neither had expressed a desire to repeat the experience.
    ‘So what do you think?’ Blount finally asked.
    ‘About Frankie or about the witness?’
    ‘Start with the