Read Online Hard Road by Barbara D'Amato - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara D'Amato
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Women Private Investigators, Chicago, Chicago (Ill.), Illinois, Oz (Imaginary place), Marsala; Cat (Fictitious character), Festivals
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cop instead.
I showed him the manhole cover problem. He called it in to Traffic Control. I asked him to page my friend, Chief Harold McCoo. "About the shooting at the Oz Festival. Tell him I'm Cat Marsala." The cop looked at me kind of funny, seeing an unprepossessing, bedraggled, smelly, damp woman wincing in pain and holding the hand of a bedraggled, smelly, damp child. But he paged.
Jeremy and I sat in a squad car, listening to the police radio and trying to feel warm. McCoo was on his way. As I tried to relax I suddenly thought, What about the cat? I looked over at Jeremy.
He was just taking the cat out from under his shirt.
I smiled.
This was all fine, and thank God we were alive. But an even harder problem lay ahead.
What should I do about Barry?
7
WE'VE COME SUCH A LONG WAY ALREADY
"It can't be only ten after ten!" I was utterly amazed. Apparently Jeremy and I had been down in the tunnels only a little over an hour. It had seemed like four or five hours.
We were in the District Commander's office in the brand-new First District police station. My friend Harold McCoo had come in and declared that, even though the detectives would prefer to take us to the Area, which is where detectives ordinarily hang out, the new First District would be better for Jeremy. We were here already, for one thing, and McCoo believed it would upset him more to move him. Also, the new station was clean and bright and had quite a dazzling selection of food and drink machines. And milk, which somebody had poured into a plastic plate for the cat.
One of the detectives was bringing Barry to the First District from the festival, where he had been questioned. Remarkably, McCoo himself was taking a statement from Jeremy. A chief of detectives never does this kind of thing. They don't go out on cases. Commanders of districts, who are below McCoo in the hierarchy, don't go out on cases either. Nor, despite what you see on television, do the lieutenants who rank still further down. But McCoo loved children and he realized that Jeremy was fragile.
Harold McCoo was a very good man.
* * *
"My name is Harold," he said, holding out his hand. Jeremy shook it soberly. Jeremy was veering back and forth in emotions, between excitement and the teary residue of fear.
"I'm Jeremy Marsala," he said.
"That was very brave of you, going down into the tunnels."
"Yeah, I guess. But we had to. The bad guy was chasing us."
McCoo is a middle-aged black man of medium height and stately motions. He doesn't rush; he's never flustered. His main problem in life, seemingly, is a constant fight with his weight. He loves food. Now he must have decided Jeremy needed a little distraction.
"You want to get something to eat from the machines? I've got plenty of coins."
"Sure!" Jeremy went out with McCoo. I stayed in my chair, on the theory that bonding between McCoo and Jeremy would be good for both of them. Besides, my shoulder was shrieking in pain and the less I moved the happier I was. In a couple of minutes they came back.
"McCoo!" I said, when I saw Jeremy return carrying Twinkies, a Hershey bar, a can of Coke, and a bag of hard candy. There had to be a pound of pure sugar in the collection. His parents would freak. Under my breath I muttered, "That's right. Bribe a child."
"What?"
"Uh, nothing."
McCoo said, "All the adrenaline you two've been pumping probably sucked up his blood glucose. Glycogen. Whatever. I'm just trying to replenish it."
"Yeah, yeah. I know a cop with a marshmallow heart when I see one."
"Very funny. Now, Jeremy, tell me how the bad guy started to go after you. What happened right at first, before the chase?"
"You mean when the man ran to Daddy?"
"Yes."
"Well, me and Aunt Cat were talking with Je-Jennifer. And then I looked around and this guy was
I showed him the manhole cover problem. He called it in to Traffic Control. I asked him to page my friend, Chief Harold McCoo. "About the shooting at the Oz Festival. Tell him I'm Cat Marsala." The cop looked at me kind of funny, seeing an unprepossessing, bedraggled, smelly, damp woman wincing in pain and holding the hand of a bedraggled, smelly, damp child. But he paged.
Jeremy and I sat in a squad car, listening to the police radio and trying to feel warm. McCoo was on his way. As I tried to relax I suddenly thought, What about the cat? I looked over at Jeremy.
He was just taking the cat out from under his shirt.
I smiled.
This was all fine, and thank God we were alive. But an even harder problem lay ahead.
What should I do about Barry?
7
WE'VE COME SUCH A LONG WAY ALREADY
"It can't be only ten after ten!" I was utterly amazed. Apparently Jeremy and I had been down in the tunnels only a little over an hour. It had seemed like four or five hours.
We were in the District Commander's office in the brand-new First District police station. My friend Harold McCoo had come in and declared that, even though the detectives would prefer to take us to the Area, which is where detectives ordinarily hang out, the new First District would be better for Jeremy. We were here already, for one thing, and McCoo believed it would upset him more to move him. Also, the new station was clean and bright and had quite a dazzling selection of food and drink machines. And milk, which somebody had poured into a plastic plate for the cat.
One of the detectives was bringing Barry to the First District from the festival, where he had been questioned. Remarkably, McCoo himself was taking a statement from Jeremy. A chief of detectives never does this kind of thing. They don't go out on cases. Commanders of districts, who are below McCoo in the hierarchy, don't go out on cases either. Nor, despite what you see on television, do the lieutenants who rank still further down. But McCoo loved children and he realized that Jeremy was fragile.
Harold McCoo was a very good man.
* * *
"My name is Harold," he said, holding out his hand. Jeremy shook it soberly. Jeremy was veering back and forth in emotions, between excitement and the teary residue of fear.
"I'm Jeremy Marsala," he said.
"That was very brave of you, going down into the tunnels."
"Yeah, I guess. But we had to. The bad guy was chasing us."
McCoo is a middle-aged black man of medium height and stately motions. He doesn't rush; he's never flustered. His main problem in life, seemingly, is a constant fight with his weight. He loves food. Now he must have decided Jeremy needed a little distraction.
"You want to get something to eat from the machines? I've got plenty of coins."
"Sure!" Jeremy went out with McCoo. I stayed in my chair, on the theory that bonding between McCoo and Jeremy would be good for both of them. Besides, my shoulder was shrieking in pain and the less I moved the happier I was. In a couple of minutes they came back.
"McCoo!" I said, when I saw Jeremy return carrying Twinkies, a Hershey bar, a can of Coke, and a bag of hard candy. There had to be a pound of pure sugar in the collection. His parents would freak. Under my breath I muttered, "That's right. Bribe a child."
"What?"
"Uh, nothing."
McCoo said, "All the adrenaline you two've been pumping probably sucked up his blood glucose. Glycogen. Whatever. I'm just trying to replenish it."
"Yeah, yeah. I know a cop with a marshmallow heart when I see one."
"Very funny. Now, Jeremy, tell me how the bad guy started to go after you. What happened right at first, before the chase?"
"You mean when the man ran to Daddy?"
"Yes."
"Well, me and Aunt Cat were talking with Je-Jennifer. And then I looked around and this guy was
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