Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel Read Online Free Page A

to thank you.” She gives Sofia a big hug. “You’re so sweet. Wish I had a granddaughter like you.”
    “I’ll take care of him until you get out, or I’ll find somebody who can.”
    “He barks a lot, but he doesn’t bite. Don’t let him scare you.”
    “Not to worry.” Sofia smiles. They’re out the door.
    Harry runs interference as the two women head for the ladies’ room.
    “Hold on. Where’re you going?” One of the detectives tries to step around Harry to stop them.
    “She’s going to take a pee. You want to watch?” says Harry.
    “You said you were gonna surrender her. That was five minutes ago. We’re not gonna wait forever!” The detective starts jacking his jaw in Harry’s face, up close like he wants to chest-butt him.
    “You want to have a mess all over the backseat of your car, go ahead, pull her off the commode,” says Harry. “I’ll catch the video on my cell phone. We can put it on YouTube and take odds on how many million hits we get.”
    Outside the entrance to our office I can see the camera crews. Harry has apparently forced them out of the office onto the path out in front, where they’re setting up to film the capture of Public Enemy No. 1.
    The other cop steps toward me and whispers up close: “I take it there’s no other way out of there.” He tilts his head toward the bathroom. He’s getting nervous, wondering whether maybe Emma might shimmy up an air vent in the bathroom and disappear. With the cameras all primed outside that wouldn’t make a happy sound bite or a winning picture.
    “Only one door,” I tell him.
    “What about windows?” The detective thinks I’m giving him a lawyer’s answer.
    “One little six-incher, high on the wall,” says Harry. “So unless she’s gone on a crash diet and learned how to fly in the last minute or so . . .”
    “You must spend a lot of time in the ladies’ room. You know so much about it.” The antsy detective is in Harry’s face again.
    “Relax, Dick. Give it a break.” His partner nudges him away before it bubbles over.
    “Dick, is it?” says Harry.
    “What’s it to you?” says the angry cop.
    “Just wondering,” says Harry.
    “Wondering about what?”
    “How parents can be so prophetic when naming an infant.”
    “You wanna talk about that outside?” says the cop.
    “Why not?” says Harry. “We can bring the secretaries. They can bring their cell phones. And you can get airtime.” Harry starts to take off his jacket as if he’s about to go ten rounds with the guy.
    “Harry!” I look at him.
    “I was only kidding.” He smiles. “Dick knows I respect him. We were just having some fun.”
    “I wasn’t,” says the cop.
    “Jeez!” says Harry. “And here I was thinking you had such a great sense of humor.”

FOUR
    O ne of the things garnered by our windfall whistle-blower award is that Harry and I are now the proud owners of an online political news tabloid in D.C. called the “Washington Gravesite.” I am busy going over a spreadsheet showing monthly overhead costs and revenue, a business enterprise that appears to have been largely a labor of love for its prior owner.
    It’s a long story, but the short version is that a young reporter, a friend of my daughter, Sarah, a kid named Alex Ives, who worked for the site and whose down-in-the-heels drunk-driving case resulted in our financial bounty, needed a job when the case ended. His boss, Tory Graves, who owned the site, had been murdered. So Harry and I bought the thing and installed Ives as the managing editor. It was probably a mistake, but we did it. It’s the problem with money. You spend it. Sometimes in foolish ways. But it didn’t feel right putting Alex out on the street when we had benefited to such a great extent from his case.
    Neither Harry nor I know squat about publishing. We would give the thing to Ives for a dollar, but he lacks the capital to keep it running. So for the time being, Harry and I are owner and publisher.