The Big Exit Read Online Free

distraught.
     He gave her that. But as soon as he mentioned the possibility of her coming down to the station house, she grew agitated.
     He didn’t push her; it was more of a gentle prodding. He just said it was important for them to get everything down—record
     everything—as soon as possible, while it was fresh in her mind.
    For some reason she wasn’t buying it. She said, “You think I had something to do with this, don’t you?”
    The truth was he didn’t know what to think. If a Belle Haven
cholo
with an attitude and a couple of priors got stabbed multiple times, the easy money was on Drug Deal Gone Bad or Guy Who Stuck
     His Dick in the Wrong Place. But when a hotshot Internet entrepreneur with a $5 million spread and a bumpy past bought it
     like this, there weren’t any favorites to bet.
    He didn’t tell her that, though. He just shook his head and said, “I’m not sure what gives you that impression.”
    She nodded, appearing to accept his response. But after mulling it over for a few seconds, she put her hand to her forehead
     and sat down on the couch. She appeared to be dizzy.
    “I’m sorry. I’m just having trouble thinking straight. My head’s spinning. Maybe it would be best if I speak to someone.”
    “Do you want to speak to a counselor? We have people we can put you in touch with.”
    “Do you know Carolyn Dupuy?” she asked. “I know she has her own practice now.”
    He glanced over at Billings, who flashed a wary return look. They both thought she was looking for psychological, not legal
     assistance.
    “I know her well,” he said.
    “Do you have a number where I can reach her?”
    Now, thanks to his munificence, Beth Hill is on the phone talking to Carolyn Dupuy. Looking at the family-room door, Madden
     thinks,
Lawyering up after thirty minutes of questioning. You think that’s so smart? What kind of message do you think that sends?
    “Stay here,” he tells Billings. “Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her go anywhere. And call me when Carolyn shows.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “To see if Lyons has anything for us.”
    “Great. So I just gotta stand here?”
    “Sit if you want,” he says, walking out. “Just don’t eat their food.”
    Madden is more than twenty-five years Billings’s senior. In law-enforcement years, he’s ancient, a relic at sixty-two. After
     his promotion to detective sergeant last year, he retired the gold wire-framed, oversized glasses that his colleagues liked
     to suggest could be carbon-dated back to somewhere between the Disco and New Wave eras. They’ve been replaced by a more stylish
     half-rim, gunmetal variety that helps make him look a little younger. When he’s stationary, he can pass for someone in his
     early to midfifties. But he’s got a limp, so when he moves, people perceive him differently. He looks older, he thinks.
    On his right foot he wears a thick-soled orthopedic shoe. As a young boy he’d contracted polio, one of the last known cases
     in the United States, the result of which was a drop foot. His handicap was the topic of a few local newspaper articles over
     the years, and more recently, after he’d shot and killed a deranged college student who’d gravely wounded a classmate, his
     medical history and revelations of childhood sexual abuse were played out in the national media.
    His minor act of heroism—if it could even be called that—has come to define him, and now part of him regrets not bowing out
     shortly after the shooting, when his retirement package became fully vested.
    The painful irony is that for all the attention and honors bestowed upon him for his bravado, he’s ended up feeling like a
     coward for not walking away when he should have. His reticence (or was it ambivalence?) has created problems for him at home.
     His wife feels that if he wants to continue working, he should retire, take the monthly pensionthat’s due to him, and pick up some consulting work on the side. They can then use the