Holy Terror Read Online Free Page A

Golf Club. Captain O’Neil has lifted that fear, regardless of the personal consequences. For that reason, I’m proud to call him my honorary brother.’
    Nine members of the Forty-Ninth Street Golf Club were convicted on seven sample counts of extortion and five sample counts of homicide in the first degree. Between them, they were sentenced to 369 years in jail. Conor had cleaned up one of the worst scandals in the police department’s history, and the
New York Post
hailed him as a hero. But Luigi Guttuso’s ‘honorary brother’ speech and the naked hostility of his fellow officers finished his career. He resigned the morning after the trial; but before he could write out his resignation letter, he had to remove the dead sewer rat fastened to his blotter with a six-inch nail.
    Conor opened up a yellow legal pad and took a pencil out of the shamrock-decorated mug whichLacey had given him for St Patrick’s Day. Tentatively, he began to sketch the man and the woman he had encountered outside the security door. He wasn’t very good at drawing. His art teacher had told him that he drew people like walking mattresses and horses like ironing boards, and it took four or five attempts before he managed to produce two reasonable likenesses. He even had to stick his tongue out, the way he used to do in grade school. But the finished result wasn’t too far off. He felt that he had caught the woman’s feline face and her upswept hair; and even though the man’s forehead was too bulgy, he definitely had that Copacabana look. Underneath, Conor wrote
August 10, 12:27 p.m. Who??? And What??? And Why??
?
    His deputy Salvatore Morales came into the office. ‘Brinks-Mat called in. They just passed 34th Street. They should be here in less than five minutes.’
    Conor stood up. Even after seven and a half weeks, he still felt uncomfortable with Salvatore. Salvatore was impeccably smart and well pressed and efficient. His mustache was always clipped and his fingernails were always buffed and he always smelled (discreetly) of lavender water. In his eleven-and-a-half-year career at Spurr’s Fifth Avenue he had detained more shoplifters than the rest of the security staff put together. When Bill Hardcastle the last chief security officer had retired, Salvatore had naturally expected to step straight into his shoes.
    Spurr’s board of directors, however, had been urged by their public-relations people to take on ‘Manhattan’s Crusading Cop’. When Conor wasawarded the job, Spurr’s had even taken out advertisements in the Sunday papers, with a photograph of Conor in his police dress uniform, and the headline NEW YORK’S FINEST … STORE. Conor was embarrassed. Lacey thought it was wonderful. But Salvatore must have felt like going down on his hands and knees that Sunday and eating cat litter. Conor hadn’t yet found the right moment to talk to him, to straighten their relationship out, and Salvatore was always so formal that it was almost impossible to start up a casual conversation.
    â€˜Sal – before you go – did you see anybody unusual in the store today?’
    â€˜Unusual in what way, sir?’
    â€˜Unusual like this.’ Conor pushed his legal pad across the desk. ‘Very well dressed. She’s tall, he’s small.’
    Salvatore picked up the pad and studied it. ‘I don’t know, sir. What context?’
    â€˜Forget about the context. Context is 90 per cent to blame for witness misidentification. They see a guy in a line-up, witnesses immediately assume that he must have done something.’
    â€˜Sir, I was six years with Metro-Dade sheriff’s department, Florida.’
    â€˜I know that, Sal. I know your qualifications. I’m just asking you if you ever saw these people before.’
    â€˜Respectfully, sir, maybe we could use a police artist.’
    Conor looked at him steadily for a long time.