Free SISTER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 4) by Lawrence de Maria Page A

time.
    “Since when do you care about people hating your guts?”
    “Good point. By the way, since we’re talking about my popularity, or lack thereof, my credentials came through. I want to thank you again.”
    “You don’t have to thank me, Alton.”
    We left it at that. Mike thought he owed me, probably forever, for contriving the coverup that saved his career, and probably his sanity, after the Denton murder case blew up in everyone’s face and left bodies strewn all over the borough. Because of the personal tragedies involved, I had never asked him for any special treatment from his office, above and beyond what I always had been able to finagle out of it. But knowing he could make my professional life easier, he had made me a non-paid “consulting detective” to his office, with an I.D. and Law Enforcement Officer carry permit to match. That meant I could take my gun into any American jurisdiction and, more importantly, on a plane. Cormac, acting on Mike’s behalf, had also crafted a letter saying that I was basically always on official business for the N.Y.P.D. Mac suggested that Sullivan probably got the idea (“which is probably as illegal as the deck I had two moonlighting firemen attach to my house”) from the TV show, Sherlock , where a modern-day Holmes character has the same designation. I didn’t care. Whatever bureaucratic doors might still be closed to me, I could easily lie my way past them. The only downside was that I just knew that Mac would start calling me “Sherlock.”    
    “Give my love to Alice, will you?”
    “Will do. You know, Mike, this is the first time I asked for information and you didn’t want to know what I was up to.”
    “New strategy. I’m going to try it out for a while. I think I’ll sleep better that way.”     
    ***
    I headed back to St. George. I began to think I should move my office there.
    Samuel L. Rosenberg was a mob lawyer without a mob client. Since he used to have a very lucrative one, the late, unlamented Nando Carlucci, I was right in suspecting that he would not be thrilled to see me. Even Sam could probably make the case that I was the principal reason Nando was late and unlamented.
    Sam was a slippery devil, so I thought it prudent to drop in on him unannounced in his office on Central Avenue just up the block from the D.A.’s office. I had been in the building many times and knew he was on the third floor, although I never had the occasion to meet him there. It turned out he was so slippery his office wasn’t on the third floor anymore. It wasn’t even in the building. The new occupant, some sort of financial consultant, told me that Sam had downsized and was now operating in a smaller office next to a pizza restaurant in West Brighton, near Bard Avenue.
    Oh yes, he’d be delighted to see me. 
    I drove to West Brighton. I thought about buying a couple of slices in the pizza parlor to bring him as a peace offering but decided against it. He might take it as a dig about Nando, who was known to eat two pies at a sitting. I had no trouble getting past Sam’s receptionist. He didn’t have one. I found him buried in paperwork at his desk. He smiled expectantly when I walked in, perhaps thinking I was a potential client. Then he recognized me.
    “What do you want, you rotten son of a bitch?”
    “Is that any way to talk, Sam? How do you know I’m not a potential client?”
    “I would represent Himmler at this point, Rhode, but I draw the line at you. You made Nando Carlucci disappear and he took most of my practice with him. Look what I’m reduced to.”
    He waved an arm at his surroundings, which I was forced to admit, were dismal. Early-American Goodwill. There was a brown bag on his desk and a slight pastrami overlay cut through the tomato sauce smells wafting from his neighbors.
    “Accident cases. Slips and falls. Workman’s comp. Do you know how much paperwork is involved dealing with insurance companies and the meshugganah