and killed his own dog in some kind of psychotic break with reality.
Danny leaned against the kitchen door and gripped Beowulf’s tags until the metal dug into the skin of his palm. The pain kept him focused. Kept the surge at bay.
Let go and feel, Danny. Pain is good. It’s a first step .
His right hand was bleeding.
By the time the cops left, it was after eight. Only Novell remained.
Danny turned to him. “Did you forget something?”
“Thought I’d help you bury your dog,” Novell said, his voice mild.
“Forget it.”
“No. He’s big.”
“Thank you.”
Danny couldn’t stand to look at Novell, not with tears burning his eyes. Christ, his old man would have a good laugh if he could see him now.
The phone rang, and Danny tripped over a pile of silverware lying on the kitchen floor. He kicked at it and grabbed the receiver. “Yeah?”
“Danny Boy, you sound out of breath.” The voice was little more than a whisper but full of malice.
“Who is this?”
“You got our message. That’s good.”
The phone slipped against his bloody palm. “What do you want?”
“This was a warning. You understand? Keep out of what don’t concern you. Be smart. Give us the package and walk away.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The package Michael Cohen brought you.”
Danny looked at the crap on the floor. Michael had a package? But he didn’t. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. “Look, asshole, I don’t have any goddamn package—”
“Wrong answer.”
The phone clicked.
12
N ovell watched Ryan stand at the kitchen sink and run water over his hands. His shirt and the front of his suit jacket were stiff with blood, and if Novell hadn’t seen it, he wouldn’t have thought Ryan had it in him to heft that dog and stagger with him down to an area near the duck pond surrounded by willow trees. They buried him there, neither of them speaking. It wasn’t until they got back to the house that Novell realized how ripped up Ryan’s hands were.
His first thought was soft city boy, nothing like his old man. His second was maybe strength came in different packages.
“Would you like a drink, Detective?”
“Sure, I could use one.” Novell wanted to forget burying that dog. He wanted to forget a lot of things.
Ryan wiped his hands on a towel and turned to face Novell. Silver lines of tears cut through the dirt on Ryan’s face, and Novell thought of the book of martyrs again.
“You’re a scotch man,” Ryan said.
“Good guess.”
“My father was a scotch man.” Ryan pointed to a doorway. “I don’t think they completely trashed the bar.”
Novell followed him out of the kitchen into the family room and stepped over a couple of shattered crystal vases. Expensive.Was there anything in this house that didn’t cost a fortune? Books were scattered across the floor, and someone had pitched the family photographs throughout the room like Frisbees. Novell wanted to straighten the oil portrait that hung at a crazy angle from the wall. The perfect family—young, attractive, too good to be true. Novell turned away and surveyed the room.
It was three times the size of his condo—new construction made to look old with its exposed beams, high windows with leaded glass, and cathedral ceiling. The fancy furniture was all earthy greens, deep reds, and rich golds with matching pillows, now tossed helter-skelter. A mahogany bar stood in the corner. It appeared intact.
“Whoever was here left with all the beer and most of the vodka.” Ryan held up a fifth of Chivas. “This okay or are you a single malt man? I’ve got a case of Glenfiddich.”
“Chivas is fine.”
“Straight okay?”
Novell nodded. “You don’t drink?”
“Never was much good at it.” Ryan poured a double shot of Chivas and handed it to Novell. He opened a bottle of club soda for himself. “Now I bet your partner McFarland’s an imported beer man. Heineken. Guinness. Or maybe Dos Equis with a wedge of
Danny leaned against the kitchen door and gripped Beowulf’s tags until the metal dug into the skin of his palm. The pain kept him focused. Kept the surge at bay.
Let go and feel, Danny. Pain is good. It’s a first step .
His right hand was bleeding.
By the time the cops left, it was after eight. Only Novell remained.
Danny turned to him. “Did you forget something?”
“Thought I’d help you bury your dog,” Novell said, his voice mild.
“Forget it.”
“No. He’s big.”
“Thank you.”
Danny couldn’t stand to look at Novell, not with tears burning his eyes. Christ, his old man would have a good laugh if he could see him now.
The phone rang, and Danny tripped over a pile of silverware lying on the kitchen floor. He kicked at it and grabbed the receiver. “Yeah?”
“Danny Boy, you sound out of breath.” The voice was little more than a whisper but full of malice.
“Who is this?”
“You got our message. That’s good.”
The phone slipped against his bloody palm. “What do you want?”
“This was a warning. You understand? Keep out of what don’t concern you. Be smart. Give us the package and walk away.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The package Michael Cohen brought you.”
Danny looked at the crap on the floor. Michael had a package? But he didn’t. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. “Look, asshole, I don’t have any goddamn package—”
“Wrong answer.”
The phone clicked.
12
N ovell watched Ryan stand at the kitchen sink and run water over his hands. His shirt and the front of his suit jacket were stiff with blood, and if Novell hadn’t seen it, he wouldn’t have thought Ryan had it in him to heft that dog and stagger with him down to an area near the duck pond surrounded by willow trees. They buried him there, neither of them speaking. It wasn’t until they got back to the house that Novell realized how ripped up Ryan’s hands were.
His first thought was soft city boy, nothing like his old man. His second was maybe strength came in different packages.
“Would you like a drink, Detective?”
“Sure, I could use one.” Novell wanted to forget burying that dog. He wanted to forget a lot of things.
Ryan wiped his hands on a towel and turned to face Novell. Silver lines of tears cut through the dirt on Ryan’s face, and Novell thought of the book of martyrs again.
“You’re a scotch man,” Ryan said.
“Good guess.”
“My father was a scotch man.” Ryan pointed to a doorway. “I don’t think they completely trashed the bar.”
Novell followed him out of the kitchen into the family room and stepped over a couple of shattered crystal vases. Expensive.Was there anything in this house that didn’t cost a fortune? Books were scattered across the floor, and someone had pitched the family photographs throughout the room like Frisbees. Novell wanted to straighten the oil portrait that hung at a crazy angle from the wall. The perfect family—young, attractive, too good to be true. Novell turned away and surveyed the room.
It was three times the size of his condo—new construction made to look old with its exposed beams, high windows with leaded glass, and cathedral ceiling. The fancy furniture was all earthy greens, deep reds, and rich golds with matching pillows, now tossed helter-skelter. A mahogany bar stood in the corner. It appeared intact.
“Whoever was here left with all the beer and most of the vodka.” Ryan held up a fifth of Chivas. “This okay or are you a single malt man? I’ve got a case of Glenfiddich.”
“Chivas is fine.”
“Straight okay?”
Novell nodded. “You don’t drink?”
“Never was much good at it.” Ryan poured a double shot of Chivas and handed it to Novell. He opened a bottle of club soda for himself. “Now I bet your partner McFarland’s an imported beer man. Heineken. Guinness. Or maybe Dos Equis with a wedge of
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