Free Cold Blood by Theresa Monsour Page A

watched with her arms folded in front of her.
    â€œWouldn’t have squeezed her tits if I knew she was a cop.”
    â€œYou squeezed her tits?” said the big uniform. “Jesus Christ. You’re lucky to be breathing. We saved your life, dumb shit.”

NINE
    CHAD PEDERSON WASN’T a wife killer. Murphy did more checking when she got back to the station. Made a few phone calls from her desk. He had nothing in the way of a record. “Damn waste of time,” she muttered as she threw down a pen and leaned back in her chair.
    Chuck Dubrowski and Max Castro walked into the office. They were veterans in Homicide and had been partners so long they looked alike—big arms, bushy eyebrows, gray hair, thick necks that seemed sunburned even in the middle of winter. When Dubrowski learned he needed glasses, he went out and got the same wire-rimmed frames as Castro. He said it was a coincidence, but Murphy enjoyed giving him grief about it. Today they wore matching sweatshirts under their blazers.
    â€œWild-goose chase,” Castro muttered, tossing a notebook on his desk.
    Dubrowski poured himself a cup of coffee and collapsed into his chair. “Yo-Yo and his bullshit.”
    â€œWhat happened?” Murphy asked.
    â€œGet this,” said Castro, sitting down. “Duncan hands us this address on the North End. Some guy getting death threats.”
    â€œThe North End?” asked Murphy. “I know where this is going.”
    â€œYup,” said Dubrowski. “Anyway, I tell Yo-Yo who we’re dealing with, that we all know this head case. He says there could be something to it; maybe somebody is really threatening the guy this time. I tell Duncan to send a uniform. Castro says we should call head case’s social worker. The asshole says if we don’t take the call, he’s gonna write us up. Fuck him.”
    Castro: “So we drive out there to make Duncan happy. The head case is sitting in his front room with a crucifix. He’s got his noggin wrapped in aluminum foil so the aliens can’t tap into his mind. Waves his cross around and says he won’t talk to us because we’re part of the conspiracy. Says we’re ghosts from another planet and we’re helping UFOs abduct people.”
    â€œGhosts? That’s a new twist in his story,” Murphy said. “But then why does he keep calling us?”
    Dubrowski: “Hell if I know.”
    Murphy: “Ghosts don’t go out during the day, do they?”
    Dubrowski: “I didn’t write this guy’s script for him.”
    Castro got out of his chair and walked over to Murphy’s desk. “Anyway, we’re coming back to the cop shop and Duncan calls us.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Guess what he says? Says to make sure we do up a detailed report. That’s the word he used. Detailed .”
    Murphy: “You’re shittin’ me.”
    Castro: “I shit you not.”
    â€œThink it would do us any good to talk to the boss?” Murphy asked.
    â€œHe’s got his own problems,” said Castro.
    Murphy knew he was right. Months earlier, Chief Benjamin Christianson had been accused of hindering her investigation into a prostitute’s death. The murderer—the man who’d given Murphy the scar—was a surgeon and acousin of Christianson’s wife. The doctor killed himself before his arrest, but that didn’t end the mess. The mayor wanted the chief’s resignation and Christianson was fighting it. Adding to the tumult: a city council plan to move police headquarters from downtown to the lower East Side.
    â€œWhat about going to the union?” said Murphy.
    â€œWe already talked to Sandeen,” said Dubrowski. Pete Sandeen, another Homicide detective, was a union steward. “He says we should hold off. Give Yo-Yo time. I say it’s time to kick his ass.”
    Castro walked back to his desk, sat down and waved