Read Online The Second Objective by Mark Frost - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Frost
Ads: Link
bite.
Eyeing the meat spread suspiciously, Ole took an exploratory sniff.
“It’s not going to bite back, Ole.”
“Smells iffy,” said Carlson.
“You eat Spam, don’t you?”
“Sure. Spam’s great. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Fourteen different ways.”
“Trust me on this,” said Grannit. “Whatever parts of those pigs or cows that’s in Spam? What’s in here is from higher up.”
Ole put the sandwich back together, took a small, cautious bite, and rolled it around in his mouth for a while.
“You’re right, Earl,” said Carlson. “That is a whole lot tastier than Spam.”
They’d only been partnered a few weeks. Carlson had been an insurance investigator and volunteer fireman back home in Sioux Falls. Grannit liked how that prepared him for both the quick, unpredictable action and the crushingly dull aftermath of police work. Ole had gone through training as an MP before being transferred to CID, where he specialized in forgery and document work, the area of insurance fraud that he’d trained in. Ole was religious, always went to chapel on Sundays, and said his prayers but never threw it at you. He liked Ole for his flat, halting Midwestern voice, too, his blond brush cut on a head like a shot put, and his straight-ahead nature.
“Man, I like this French coffee,” said Carlson. “Got some hair on it. Makes you want to stand up and say hello.”
“That’s Belgian coffee,” said Grannit.
Ole just nodded. He watched two uniformed MPs lead another group of GI suspects through the lobby. “You gonna handle interrogating these boys?”
“Many as they’ll let me,” said Grannit.
“That the kind of thing you do back in New York, Earl?”
“That’s right, Ole.”
“Thieves and murderers and rapists—”
“We didn’t turn anybody away.”
“Man oh man oh man. Life in the big city.” Ole pondered for a moment. “Could I watch you interrogating these fellas?”
“That’s not up to me,” said Grannit.
“I figure I could pick up a lot from that. About detective work and what have you.”
“Nothing personal, okay? This ain’t night school. Just keep your eyes open and don’t pass up an opportunity to shut the hell up. What you do with it after is your business.”
“Sure, okay,” said Carlson. “I can tell you’re mad, though. Makes me mad, too, these railroad bums. Thinking about what they did.”
“Don’t lose any sleep over it.”
Grannit finished his sandwich, stretched out on the sofa, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and folded his arms. Carlson had watched him do this before, grabbing short bursts of shut-eye, and figured it for an old detective’s trick, catnapping when he got the chance. Ole decided to give it a try and squirmed to get comfortable in the big overstuffed chair. Grannit cocked open an eye and watched Ole decide whether or not he should park his muddy boots on a heavy gilded table. Then he got up, spread out an edition of
Stars and Stripes
on the table, sat back down, and eased one boot down and then the other on the folded page.
Grannit pulled his hat back down. There was the occasional shit about Ole that drove him nuts, too.
A young captain and lieutenant from Army Intelligence showed up at five in the morning, throwing their weight around, while their adjutants ran around for coffee and donuts. When they started bitching about how hard they were going to have to work to keep the whole stinking Railway Battalion story out of the
New York Times
, Grannit turned over a table in their laps.
“We just broke the biggest criminal case of the war trying to solve a front-line morale problem, so I don’t give a fuck it’s a public relations headache for some rear-echelon horse’s ass. You got that?”
Grannit’s superiors from CID showed up in time to hear that and let it drop that Lieutenant Grannit had fifteen years in NYPD robbery-homicide. The hotshots from Intelligence seemed eager to tidy up their paperwork and hit the road.
At
Eyeing the meat spread suspiciously, Ole took an exploratory sniff.
“It’s not going to bite back, Ole.”
“Smells iffy,” said Carlson.
“You eat Spam, don’t you?”
“Sure. Spam’s great. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Fourteen different ways.”
“Trust me on this,” said Grannit. “Whatever parts of those pigs or cows that’s in Spam? What’s in here is from higher up.”
Ole put the sandwich back together, took a small, cautious bite, and rolled it around in his mouth for a while.
“You’re right, Earl,” said Carlson. “That is a whole lot tastier than Spam.”
They’d only been partnered a few weeks. Carlson had been an insurance investigator and volunteer fireman back home in Sioux Falls. Grannit liked how that prepared him for both the quick, unpredictable action and the crushingly dull aftermath of police work. Ole had gone through training as an MP before being transferred to CID, where he specialized in forgery and document work, the area of insurance fraud that he’d trained in. Ole was religious, always went to chapel on Sundays, and said his prayers but never threw it at you. He liked Ole for his flat, halting Midwestern voice, too, his blond brush cut on a head like a shot put, and his straight-ahead nature.
“Man, I like this French coffee,” said Carlson. “Got some hair on it. Makes you want to stand up and say hello.”
“That’s Belgian coffee,” said Grannit.
Ole just nodded. He watched two uniformed MPs lead another group of GI suspects through the lobby. “You gonna handle interrogating these boys?”
“Many as they’ll let me,” said Grannit.
“That the kind of thing you do back in New York, Earl?”
“That’s right, Ole.”
“Thieves and murderers and rapists—”
“We didn’t turn anybody away.”
“Man oh man oh man. Life in the big city.” Ole pondered for a moment. “Could I watch you interrogating these fellas?”
“That’s not up to me,” said Grannit.
“I figure I could pick up a lot from that. About detective work and what have you.”
“Nothing personal, okay? This ain’t night school. Just keep your eyes open and don’t pass up an opportunity to shut the hell up. What you do with it after is your business.”
“Sure, okay,” said Carlson. “I can tell you’re mad, though. Makes me mad, too, these railroad bums. Thinking about what they did.”
“Don’t lose any sleep over it.”
Grannit finished his sandwich, stretched out on the sofa, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and folded his arms. Carlson had watched him do this before, grabbing short bursts of shut-eye, and figured it for an old detective’s trick, catnapping when he got the chance. Ole decided to give it a try and squirmed to get comfortable in the big overstuffed chair. Grannit cocked open an eye and watched Ole decide whether or not he should park his muddy boots on a heavy gilded table. Then he got up, spread out an edition of
Stars and Stripes
on the table, sat back down, and eased one boot down and then the other on the folded page.
Grannit pulled his hat back down. There was the occasional shit about Ole that drove him nuts, too.
A young captain and lieutenant from Army Intelligence showed up at five in the morning, throwing their weight around, while their adjutants ran around for coffee and donuts. When they started bitching about how hard they were going to have to work to keep the whole stinking Railway Battalion story out of the
New York Times
, Grannit turned over a table in their laps.
“We just broke the biggest criminal case of the war trying to solve a front-line morale problem, so I don’t give a fuck it’s a public relations headache for some rear-echelon horse’s ass. You got that?”
Grannit’s superiors from CID showed up in time to hear that and let it drop that Lieutenant Grannit had fifteen years in NYPD robbery-homicide. The hotshots from Intelligence seemed eager to tidy up their paperwork and hit the road.
At
Similar Books
