Earthquake I.D. Read Online Free Page B

the earthquake.” With so many new hardscrabble cases, the detective went on, the old mobster hegemony could no longer claim a piece of every street hit.
    â€œIn other words,” JJ said, “you’re clueless.”
    The plainclothesman appeared to know the expression. His gaze hardened.
    â€œIt used to be,” the big teen went on, “the police and the crooks were friends. Everybody got their coffee at the same place.”
    â€œJJ,” Barbara said.
    â€œThat made it easier, back when you were all friends. In those days you guys would’ve had half a clue, when somebody nearly kills my father.”
    The detective turned to the mother. His voice dropped to a murmur. You Americans must understand that an incident of this kind can be most difficult…
    Babytalk, that’s what they gave her. Meanwhile around Jay and Paul, everyone else appeared to be the babies, hanging on their every word. The father and middle child might’ve been a pair of CEO’s, lording it over the damaged downtown, making promises of a thousand new jobs. When somebody carted in espresso, croissants, and lemonade, the mother got last dibs as the trays went around. A twenty-something with the clinic, an intern of some kind, ran a pretty finger along Jay’s jaw-line. Meanwhile the wife couldn’t get five minutes. More than once the mother had to un-stack a couple of plastic chairs for her and the girls, and settle in along a wall, uncomfortably aware of what the morning’s banging around had done to her looks. Since she’d left off nursing the twins she’d made it a point to watch her appearance in public. She’d taken care to know what her hair was doing, and how her makeup was surviving.
    Yet now, with all these men in her way…
    Signora, asked one of the younger doctors, you are certain you saw something from, ah, inside? Inside the head? Signora, ah, the blood on your dress…
    This time Chris was the boy who gave her some relief: “Look, you know what we thought? We thought Pop was dead!”
    The fifteen-year-old wheeled around in a squat. He’d been down between Dora’s and Syl’s chairs, reciting some toe-rhyme.
    â€œDead!” Chris repeated, shoving his glasses back up his nose. “Morto!”
    Barbara blinked at the word, a one-two slap in her son’s crash-course Italian. In another moment she’d heaved herself out of her chair and past the doctor. She headed for her husband, tugging at the armpit of her dress. Not that her clothing mattered; rather, she had to make room for the lightning underneath.
    Jay understood that this was serious as soon as he saw her coming. It would’ve been twenty years for them this September, plus all the hugging and kissing beforehand, around Carroll Gardens or on the J train. DiPio picked up on her urgency as well, another case of the least she could expect, considering how often the medico had used the word “sympathy.” He must’ve told them five times that “extra sympathy” had been the essential ingredient in what he termed “the healing episode.” The mother wasn’t entirely positive there’d been any actual healing—she recalled that seizures could follow a head-blow, and that these could end unexpectedly. But she was glad when the doctor proved his notion of sympathy extended to longtime wives. DiPio at once found a room for Barb and Jay, a nook typical of this ramshackle ospedale , practically tucked behind a secret panel. The mother kept her eyes on the old doctor until he shut the door.
    â€œPermesso … ?”
    They hadn’t had long before DiPio returned. He came in with his crucifix in his beard, a miniature silver pick, and announced that Paul had started to cry.
    â€œYou will understand.” He lowered his crucifix. “The healing episode is common associate with trauma.”
    Then the doctor spotted Jay, slumped over the table and