Out Cold Read Online Free

unimpressed with my charm and utterly lacked a sense of humor.
    So I called Sergeant Currier at the Joy Street Precinct, the Boston police station that covered Beacon Hill. Currier was a local cop who I’d had some dealings with even before Evie and I moved into our townhouse on Mt. Vernon Street. I figured that since my 911 call had been made from an address in his precinct, and since the emergency wagon had picked up a victim at that same address, Currier might know something about it.
    He didn’t.
    â€œSaw the call logged in,” he said. “Figured, some homeless person. You know how many homeless people’re being brought to emergency rooms these days, all this cold crappy weather we’re getting?”
    â€œLots of young girls being found in backyards on Mt. Vernon Street?” I said.
    â€œHow young?”
    â€œFifteen, sixteen maybe?”
    â€œRunaway, probably. I hate it when that happens.” He paused. “Lemme look into it, Mr. Coyne, okay? I’ll get back to you.”
    â€œShe was in bad shape,” I said. “Maybe dead. She’d been out in the snow for a long time. Turned out she’d been bleeding, too. They took her to the Suffolk County Medical Center.”
    â€œRight,” he said. “I’ll check it out.”
    â€œI really want to know if she’s okay,” I said. “I’m very concerned about this.”
    â€œI hear you, Mr. Coyne. Protect and serve. You’ll hear from me, I promise.”

Three
    I ushered out my last client of the day a little after four that afternoon, and I was standing beside Julie’s desk looking over her shoulder at a document on her computer when the door opened and a woman came stomping into our reception area. She was wearing blue jeans and calf-high leather boots. Her hip-length leather jacket was the same shade of brown as the boots. A shapeless canvas hat with the rim turned down all around shaded her face. A black ponytail hung out behind it. She was carrying a slim attaché case, but I didn’t take her for a lawyer.
    â€œIt’s ugly out there,” she muttered. She took off her hat and slapped it against her leg.
    And that’s when I recognized her. Saundra Mendoza. Even in her high-heeled boots, she barely came up to my shoulder. She had a sturdy gymnast’s body and big flashing black eyes and a happy, uninhibited smile. You’d never know how tough she was by looking at her.
    Saundra Mendoza was a Boston homicide cop.
    â€œI really didn’t want to see you,” I said to her.
    She gave me a sample of that great smile. “I get that all the time,” she said. “Nobody wants to see me. I hardly ever bring good news.” She looked at Julie and nodded. “Hey.”
    Julie returned her smile.
    â€œIs this about that girl this morning?” I said.
    Mendoza nodded and jerked her head toward my office. “Can we talk?”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Coffee?”
    â€œCoffee would be great.” She took off her coat and hung it on the coatrack.
    I poured Detective Mendoza a mug of coffee, refilled my own mug, and took them into my office. She followed and closed the door behind her.
    She sat on the sofa in my sitting area. I took the leather chair across from her. I put our mugs on the coffee table between us.
    Mendoza leaned her attaché case against the side of the sofa, picked up her mug, cradled it in both hands, and tilted it to her mouth. She looked at me over the rim with those big chocolate eyes.
    â€œThe girl died, huh?” I said.
    She nodded. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œWho is she? Did you identify her?”
    She shook her head. “No ID on her. It might take a while.”
    I blew out a breath. “I feel terrible.”
    â€œI understand.” She put her mug on the table, looked up at me, and nodded. “By the time the EMTs got her to the hospital, it was too late. We don’t have an