Scar Tissue Read Online Free

poured myself a cup of coffee and sat in one of the plastic chairs. It was spectacularly uncomfortable, so I stood up and sipped my coffee, which was spectacular, too, if you liked crankcase grease.
    I put the coffee cup back on the table and wandered over to the window. Darkness had begun to seep in over the Reddington village green. Yellow lights glowed from the windows of
the colonial houses across the way. Soon Groundhog Day would be over.
    I tried sitting again. The chairback stopped right where my shoulderblades began. It was molded in a way that forced me to hunch my shoulders.
    V. Whyte came back. She had changed out of her uniform into a pair of Levi’s, a red sweater, and a hip-length black leather jacket. “The chief knows you’re here,” she said. “He’ll be with you. It might be a while.”
    I thanked her again, which earned me an over-the-shoulder smile as she walked out.
    I stood up, went to the pay phone, fished some quarters from my pocket, and called Evie Banyon’s office at Emerson Hospital in Concord, where Evie was the assistant to the administrator.
    When she answered, I said, “Happy Imbolog.”
    â€œBrady!” she said, and I don’t think the delight I heard in her voice was wishful thinking on my part. “I was just thinking about you.”
    â€œAnything you can say out loud?”
    â€œGoodness, no. What’s Imbolog?”
    â€œGroundhog Day, honey,” I said. “A joyous pagan holiday. The orgy begins at sundown.”
    â€œIt does?”
    â€œIt does this year. It requires a barrel of mead, a sacrificial goat, and at least one virgin.”
    â€œNuts,” she said. “I’m fresh out of virgins.”
    â€œI just wanted you to know that I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œI’m out here in Reddington.”
    â€œReddington,” she repeated. “Shining the light of truth and justice into every corner of the land, are we?”
    â€œThat’s me,” I said. “Have briefcase, will litigate.”
    â€œSomething’s wrong,” she said. “I can hear it in your voice.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I’m extremely bummed, actually. I’m not
sure I’ll be very good company tonight. Maybe we should—” At that moment two men emerged from the corridor. “Gotta go, honey,” I said to Evie. “I’ll call you when I get home, okay?”
    â€œYou’re the boss,” she said.
    â€œYeah, right.”
    One of the men was Chief Sprague. I recognized him from the soccer pictures. He was about my height, maybe twenty pounds heavier, late thirties, early forties. Light brown hair in a military razor cut, rimless glasses, round, open face, thick neck, big shoulders. He was wearing his uniform—pale blue shirt, dark blue necktie, trousers that matched the tie, spitshined shoes. The tie was pulled loose at his throat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms.
    I recognized the man with him, too. It was August Nash, the district attorney. Nash was a small, fiftyish guy with thinning gray hair, bifocals, and a mouthful of man-made teeth, a relic of his career as a shifty little left-winger for his college hockey team. He was one of those Boston guys who never left town—Central Catholic High, criminal justice major at Northeastern, Boston College Law School. I’d opposed Gus Nash a few times when he was an ADA, and I knew him to be smart, scrupulous, and a helluva tough prosecutor. There were rumors that the state Democratic party was trying to convince Gus to run for attorney general in the fall election. If he did, I guessed I’d probably vote for him.
    Nash and Sprague had their heads tilted toward each other, and they were talking intently as they crossed the waiting room.
    Gus Nash saw me and smiled. “Hey, Brady. What’s a slick city lawyer doing in a little hick