Free Purgatory by Ken Bruen Page A

couldn’t get his focus right. He tried to ground himself. When one in three families was three months behind in mortgage payments, he should be glad he owned his home. This form of tit-for-tat gratitude never worked for him. Decided he needed to bite down, latch on to something.
    C33.
    The papers had given it some play but their tone was: This wasn’t connected, just a series of random psycho acts and with the country being pulverized by a crazy government, who in truth really gave a fuck if someone was offing bad guys ?
    “Hey, maybe the killer could take a look at the guys running the bloody country?”
    Called Jack, arranged a meeting, see what they could shake loose; they’d done it before. Ridge wasn’t shaping up to be much help but at least they had a Garda source. His car radio was playing and he caught
    “ . . . The Red Hot Chili Peppers are restoring funk and taking the piss out of wankers who hijacked it and then didn’t know what to do with it .”
    Stewart stared at the radio, asked,
    “The fuck are you whining on about?”
    One thing guaranteed to drive him off his Zen game was experts on rock ’n’ roll. He turned in to Merchants Road, paused, thought,
    “Not too far from the last killing.”
    He maneuvered his car into a space, surprised he’d managed to find a place, was getting out when a tall skinny guy came, galloping, shouting,
    “Hey, you can’t park there. Move that car. Now .”
    Stewart took a deep breath, drew on his extensive Zen techniques, asked quietly,
    “What?”
    Mistake.
    Dealing with minor authority, never concede an inch, they’ll skin you alive. The guy was dressed in some sort of long yellow coat, like a uniform. He looked at Stewart with derision, said,
    “Yellow lines, and what . . . What do they tell us, eh?”
    Stewart summoned the dregs of his dwindling patience, then gave the guy a slap in the mouth, said,
    “They should tell us to mind our own freaking business.”
    * * *
    Stewart was still rubbing his knuckles when he sat opposite me in Java. I’d ordered him a chamomile tea and a double espresso for myself. I asked,
    “Hit someone?”
    He grinned, said,
    “Yeah.”
    Not sure if he was kidding, I let it slide, said,
    “Chamomile tea, that’s good, right?”
    He was different, not in any noticeable way, but the energy, it was now somewhere else, leading him on a whole alternative dance. I asked,
    “How is Ridge doing?”
    He sipped at the tea, his face not showing any love for the beverage, said,
    “She’s, as you would delicately put it, fucking off to Australia .”
    His face had taken on a shadow, blend of anger, sadness, and, I don’t know, loss? I went,
    “But why?”
    And now he held my gaze, said,
    “You read the papers, watch the news, and you have to ask that?”
    I’d finished my coffee without even tasting the bitter bite I relished, the empty cup was . . . empty and I asked,
    “What will we do?”
    He gave me a radiant smile, lit with insincerity, said,
    “Have to catch C33 before she goes, you think?”

17
    Any library is a good library that does not contain a volume by Jane Austen. Even if it contains no other book.
    —Mark Twain
    C33 fucking hated Jane Austen.
    With ferocity. Even Hollywood was in on the act. How many fucking times and in how many fucking ways could you
    Adapt
    Pride and Prejudice ?
    Standing in the living room of the next victim, C33 wondered,
    “Hey, what happened to the fun gig?”
    The target was what once used to be termed slum landlord.
    But in Ireland? Believe it, the recession had brought all kinds of nasty shite and this twist was just part of the rabid package. Dolan, an apparently gentle, slightly built landlord, was cleared of intentional killing when one of his houses burned to the ground, taking a mother and two children with it. All fire safety features were glaringly absent but during the investigation, money slid its lethal way to an investigative committee, vital papers were lost. Benefit of the