now.”
“That’s crap,” Maureen proclaimed, half an inch of ash glowing red on the end of her cigarette.
Kovac cleared his throat. “Neil Fallon?”
The woman gave him the head-to-toe. “What are you selling?”
“Bad news.”
“He’s out back.”
Some friend.
She nodded him toward the kitchen door.
The kitchen was as cramped as a carnival concession stand and stank of rancid grease and sour washrags. Or maybe that damp scent came from dead minnows. Kovac kept his hands in the pockets of his topcoat and the coat pulled tightly around him. He tried not to wonder where Neil kept the live bait.
Fallon stood in the open mouth of a big storage shed. He looked like old Mike twenty-some years previous: built like a bull with a meaty, ruddy face and a bit of a downward hook to his mouth. He looked at Kovac coming across the yard, pulled a welder’s mask down over his face, and went back to work on the runner of a snowmobile. Sparks arced away from the torch like a tiny fireworks display, bright against the gloom of the shed.
“Neil Fallon?” Kovac called above the roar. He pulled his shield out of his pocket and held it up, staying out of range of the sparks. “Kovac. Minneapolis PD.”
Fallon stepped back, turned the torch off, and raised the mask. His face was blank. “He’s dead.”
Kovac stopped a yard from the snowmobile. “Someone called you?”
“No. I just always knew they’d send a cop to tell me, that’s all. You were more his family than I ever was.” He pulled a red bandanna out of his coveralls pocket and wiped sweat from his face, despite the fact that the afternoon temperature was in the low twenties. “So what was it? His heart? Or did he get drunk and fall out of the goddamn chair?”
“I’m not here about your father,” Kovac said.
Neil looked at him as if he’d started speaking Greek.
“I’m here about Andy. He’s dead. I’m sorry.”
“Andy.”
“Your brother.”
“Jesus Christ, I know he’s my brother,” Fallon snapped.
He set the welding torch aside on a workbench, hands fumbling at the task, then at the thick, grimy welder’s gloves. He jerked the mask off his head and threw it as if it burned him. It landed with a crash amid a stack of old gas cans.
“He’s dead?” he said, short of breath. “How is he dead? How can he be dead? He can’t be.”
“It looks like suicide. Or an accident.”
“Suicide?” Fallon repeated. “Fuck.” Breathing harder, he went to a rusty metal locker beside the workbench, took out a half-empty bottle of Old Crow, and drank two good glugs of it. Then he put the bottle down and bent over with his hands on his knees, muttering a long string of curses. “Andy.” He spat on the ground. “Suicide.” He spat again. “Jesus.” He took two steps out the door and puked in the snow.
Everyone reacted differently.
Kovac dug around in his coat pocket and came up with a piece of Nicorette. Shit.
“Jesus,” Fallon muttered. He came back and sat down on a stool fashioned from a tree trunk. He set the bottle of Old Crow between his feet. “Andy.”
“Were you close?” Kovac asked, leaning back against the workbench.
Fallon shook his head and scraped his fingers back through thick hair the color of old rust. “Once, I guess. Or maybe never. He spent a lot of time looking up to me when we were little kids ’cause I was older, tougher. ’Cause I stood up to the old man. But he was always Iron Mike’s favorite. I wasted a lot of time hating him for that.”
He made it sound as if he had given up the hate long ago, but there was still a trace of bitterness in his voice, Kovac noted. In his experience, family resentments were seldom set aside entirely, if at all. Instead people tossed a cover over them and ignored them, like an ugly old piece of furniture.
“Looked like he was the all-American kid, all right,” he said, poking at the old wound. “The star athlete. The good student. Followed in the old man’s
“That’s crap,” Maureen proclaimed, half an inch of ash glowing red on the end of her cigarette.
Kovac cleared his throat. “Neil Fallon?”
The woman gave him the head-to-toe. “What are you selling?”
“Bad news.”
“He’s out back.”
Some friend.
She nodded him toward the kitchen door.
The kitchen was as cramped as a carnival concession stand and stank of rancid grease and sour washrags. Or maybe that damp scent came from dead minnows. Kovac kept his hands in the pockets of his topcoat and the coat pulled tightly around him. He tried not to wonder where Neil kept the live bait.
Fallon stood in the open mouth of a big storage shed. He looked like old Mike twenty-some years previous: built like a bull with a meaty, ruddy face and a bit of a downward hook to his mouth. He looked at Kovac coming across the yard, pulled a welder’s mask down over his face, and went back to work on the runner of a snowmobile. Sparks arced away from the torch like a tiny fireworks display, bright against the gloom of the shed.
“Neil Fallon?” Kovac called above the roar. He pulled his shield out of his pocket and held it up, staying out of range of the sparks. “Kovac. Minneapolis PD.”
Fallon stepped back, turned the torch off, and raised the mask. His face was blank. “He’s dead.”
Kovac stopped a yard from the snowmobile. “Someone called you?”
“No. I just always knew they’d send a cop to tell me, that’s all. You were more his family than I ever was.” He pulled a red bandanna out of his coveralls pocket and wiped sweat from his face, despite the fact that the afternoon temperature was in the low twenties. “So what was it? His heart? Or did he get drunk and fall out of the goddamn chair?”
“I’m not here about your father,” Kovac said.
Neil looked at him as if he’d started speaking Greek.
“I’m here about Andy. He’s dead. I’m sorry.”
“Andy.”
“Your brother.”
“Jesus Christ, I know he’s my brother,” Fallon snapped.
He set the welding torch aside on a workbench, hands fumbling at the task, then at the thick, grimy welder’s gloves. He jerked the mask off his head and threw it as if it burned him. It landed with a crash amid a stack of old gas cans.
“He’s dead?” he said, short of breath. “How is he dead? How can he be dead? He can’t be.”
“It looks like suicide. Or an accident.”
“Suicide?” Fallon repeated. “Fuck.” Breathing harder, he went to a rusty metal locker beside the workbench, took out a half-empty bottle of Old Crow, and drank two good glugs of it. Then he put the bottle down and bent over with his hands on his knees, muttering a long string of curses. “Andy.” He spat on the ground. “Suicide.” He spat again. “Jesus.” He took two steps out the door and puked in the snow.
Everyone reacted differently.
Kovac dug around in his coat pocket and came up with a piece of Nicorette. Shit.
“Jesus,” Fallon muttered. He came back and sat down on a stool fashioned from a tree trunk. He set the bottle of Old Crow between his feet. “Andy.”
“Were you close?” Kovac asked, leaning back against the workbench.
Fallon shook his head and scraped his fingers back through thick hair the color of old rust. “Once, I guess. Or maybe never. He spent a lot of time looking up to me when we were little kids ’cause I was older, tougher. ’Cause I stood up to the old man. But he was always Iron Mike’s favorite. I wasted a lot of time hating him for that.”
He made it sound as if he had given up the hate long ago, but there was still a trace of bitterness in his voice, Kovac noted. In his experience, family resentments were seldom set aside entirely, if at all. Instead people tossed a cover over them and ignored them, like an ugly old piece of furniture.
“Looked like he was the all-American kid, all right,” he said, poking at the old wound. “The star athlete. The good student. Followed in the old man’s
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