Read Online Easy Innocence by Libby Fischer Hellmann - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Libby Fischer Hellmann
Tags: General Fiction
Ads: Link
hazing surfaced. Had he leaked it? It was possible; he clearly wasn’t happy with the way the case was going. But O’Malley was a team player. No matter how unhappy he was, he wouldn’t cause trouble. Or stick his neck out. Leaking the hazing took guts.
She stared up at the TV. A pretty boy with a blow-dry haircut breathlessly proclaimed that last week’s offensive play by Number 49 was a masterpiece. She hardly listened, preoccupied with another issue—this one of her own making. When she interviewed Claire Tennenbaum that morning, she’d had the stack of discovery documents with her, and she pored through them at strategic points during the conversation. She’d let the girl think she was a cop—at least, she hadn’t said anything to contradict it.
The problem was she wasn’t a cop any more. And it was against the law to impersonate one. Ironically, when she was a cop, she’d learned it was okay to lie in certain situations. She’d watched O’Malley extort information from suspects by playing them off against each other, insisting—falsely—that one was framing the other. The tactic usually worked. But Claire Tennenbaum was a kid. Lying to a kid—even misleading her— didn’t feel right.
There was another problem too. Georgia no longer had the insulation that being a cop provided. What if Claire Tennenbaum told her parents she’d been questioned by a cop, and her parents called to verify it? When they found out she’d been posing as one, she could be in trouble. She stared up at the TV, willing her stomach to stop churning.
Ten minutes later Owen arrived with her food. “Burger and fries. Rare.” He set the plate down. “You could do the breast stroke in the blood.”
She took a bite. “Perfect.”
He went back behind the bar, but she knew he was pleased. She remembered the first time she’d come to Mickey’s. Matt had brought her here one rainy spring night three years ago. He’d said it was a comfort zone, the kind of place where people knew you on the surface and didn’t need to dig any deeper. He’d been right. To this day she wasn’t sure Owen knew she—or Matt—had ever been a cop.
She watched Owen flip a white towel over his shoulder. They’d come here so often that she knew the rhythms of the place. How many times an hour Owen wiped down the bar—about twelve. How many TV stations Owen would let customers watch—only two. How many brands of bourbon he carried—seven. She recalled one night, giggling, a few brews to the high side, when she tried to swipe Owen’s towel, just to see what he’d do. She figured he’d freak out and frisk everyone in the place ‘till he found it. She sneaked up behind Owen, ready to snatch it off his shoulder when he whipped around to face her, and the chance was lost. Matt laughed so hard he knocked over his beer. They used Owen’s cloth to wipe it up.
Now, she dipped a fry in ketchup and crammed it in her mouth. When would she stop using Matt to mark time? They’d split up two years ago, but he still haunted her dreams, his face appearing unbidden when she was cuffing an offender, writing tickets, doing laundry. She saw his crooked grin, the way he pushed his hair off his face. Once he’d let it get so long that Olson threatened to buck Matt back to patrol if he didn’t get a hair-cut. That afternoon Matt came back from lunch with a shaved head. She remembered how he walked up and down the hall past Olson’s office—it had to be twenty times—before the Chief finally noticed. And never said a word.
She wiped her mouth with her napkin. Those were the heady days. When the touch of his finger sent shivers down her spine. When just being alone made them tear their clothes off, drunk with the smell, taste, and feel of each other. She thought it would never end. She took another bite of her burger. It was starting to taste like cardboard.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SOCIAL worker rooted around in a pile of olive green folders, extracted one, and
She stared up at the TV. A pretty boy with a blow-dry haircut breathlessly proclaimed that last week’s offensive play by Number 49 was a masterpiece. She hardly listened, preoccupied with another issue—this one of her own making. When she interviewed Claire Tennenbaum that morning, she’d had the stack of discovery documents with her, and she pored through them at strategic points during the conversation. She’d let the girl think she was a cop—at least, she hadn’t said anything to contradict it.
The problem was she wasn’t a cop any more. And it was against the law to impersonate one. Ironically, when she was a cop, she’d learned it was okay to lie in certain situations. She’d watched O’Malley extort information from suspects by playing them off against each other, insisting—falsely—that one was framing the other. The tactic usually worked. But Claire Tennenbaum was a kid. Lying to a kid—even misleading her— didn’t feel right.
There was another problem too. Georgia no longer had the insulation that being a cop provided. What if Claire Tennenbaum told her parents she’d been questioned by a cop, and her parents called to verify it? When they found out she’d been posing as one, she could be in trouble. She stared up at the TV, willing her stomach to stop churning.
Ten minutes later Owen arrived with her food. “Burger and fries. Rare.” He set the plate down. “You could do the breast stroke in the blood.”
She took a bite. “Perfect.”
He went back behind the bar, but she knew he was pleased. She remembered the first time she’d come to Mickey’s. Matt had brought her here one rainy spring night three years ago. He’d said it was a comfort zone, the kind of place where people knew you on the surface and didn’t need to dig any deeper. He’d been right. To this day she wasn’t sure Owen knew she—or Matt—had ever been a cop.
She watched Owen flip a white towel over his shoulder. They’d come here so often that she knew the rhythms of the place. How many times an hour Owen wiped down the bar—about twelve. How many TV stations Owen would let customers watch—only two. How many brands of bourbon he carried—seven. She recalled one night, giggling, a few brews to the high side, when she tried to swipe Owen’s towel, just to see what he’d do. She figured he’d freak out and frisk everyone in the place ‘till he found it. She sneaked up behind Owen, ready to snatch it off his shoulder when he whipped around to face her, and the chance was lost. Matt laughed so hard he knocked over his beer. They used Owen’s cloth to wipe it up.
Now, she dipped a fry in ketchup and crammed it in her mouth. When would she stop using Matt to mark time? They’d split up two years ago, but he still haunted her dreams, his face appearing unbidden when she was cuffing an offender, writing tickets, doing laundry. She saw his crooked grin, the way he pushed his hair off his face. Once he’d let it get so long that Olson threatened to buck Matt back to patrol if he didn’t get a hair-cut. That afternoon Matt came back from lunch with a shaved head. She remembered how he walked up and down the hall past Olson’s office—it had to be twenty times—before the Chief finally noticed. And never said a word.
She wiped her mouth with her napkin. Those were the heady days. When the touch of his finger sent shivers down her spine. When just being alone made them tear their clothes off, drunk with the smell, taste, and feel of each other. She thought it would never end. She took another bite of her burger. It was starting to taste like cardboard.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SOCIAL worker rooted around in a pile of olive green folders, extracted one, and
Similar Books
