Free Carolyn Arnold - McKinley 01 - The Day Job is Murder by Carolyn Arnold Page B

didn’t you? I remember you mentioning him.”
    His breathing paused. Old Man Quinn. It had been a long time since he’d heard that name, but he’d never forget him.
    “His funeral is this afternoon at three o’clock. You have time to make it.”
    “Nah, I have, we have—what happened?”
    “The piece read ‘he died peacefully at home, at the age of eighty-three.’” She touched Sean’s arm. “It’s okay. Go. I can take care of this.”
    Guilt weighed him down. It had been years—over a decade—since he’d last seen him. Sean was twenty-two when they first met and he’d be thirty-three this coming September. The sad part was he wouldn’t even have known about Quinn’s death if it wasn’t for Sara’s strange habit of reading the obituaries.
    “Go on. I can tell you want to.” Concern laced her eyes. “Do you want me to go with you? You know, as a friend, for support?”
    There was that word, again. Friend. It must have entered conversation twenty times a shift.
    Sean leaned against the window and looked into the interview room. Burton was biting his fingernails. The bad habit made Sean shiver in disgust.
    He looked back to Sara. “I should go.”
    “Well then, go.”

    He nodded slowly, saddened by Quinn’s death. They had been close for a time, but life got busy and their visits weaned off to non-existence—Sean’s fault, not Quinn’s. But he still remembered their first meeting like it was yesterday. It was around Christmas, and he was only a beat cop at the time.

 

     
    Meeting Mr. Quinn
     
    Eleven years earlier…
    “WE HAVE A TWO-ELEVEN IN progress, Mr. Convenience variety, corner of Hawk Street South and Morton Avenue.”
    Robbery.
    “Dispatch, this is unit three-oh-five. Our ETA is two minutes. Responding to call. Over.”
    “Unit three-oh-five. Acknowledged.”
    Sean’s training officer, Jimmy Voigt, returned the radio to its cradle. “You ready, Sean? This is the real deal.”
    Sean nodded, letting out a deep rush of breath.
    “Just stay alert and don’t try to be a hero. Heroes get shot.” Voigt gave the sirens life and they wailed into the night air.
    Sean had been through this speech a hundred, if not a thousand, times. No call was routine, no matter what it appeared to be on the surface. Each response had the potential of being the last.
    “There’s a bunch of crazies out there.” Voigt had said, on day one.
    Sean’s insides churned and had him thinking about the antacids tucked in his jacket pocket, but he would manage without them. It was just nerves, adrenaline. It also made his chest heavy and his breathing uneven, bringing with it a tingling sensation that started in the earlobes and moved down, creating a burning heat in his solar plexus. He liked to think it was his cop intuition that would keep him alive and one step ahead of the bad guys.
    Mr. Convenience was in sight and they were closing in fast. The two-minute estimate Voigt had provided dispatch came in at just over one. The speed had turned the images into blurs and the wet pavement refracted the whirling blue and red lights.
    “Dispatch, unit three-oh-five, on scene.”
    “Unit three-oh-five, acknowledged.”
    The parking lot had two cars, both sedans. On quick estimate, they both dated back over five years. One likely belonged to the employee and one to a customer, but it was possible more people came by foot.
    They ran the plates on the vehicles and one was registered to Bill Smith, age thirty-five, and the other to Douglas Quinn, seventy-two.
    The storefront was all windows, half of it blocked by displays, but the checkout was visible. A man in a black ski mask was gesturing wildly to the man behind the counter, and based on age, it was Smith.
    “He doesn’t appear to be armed or he’d have the weapon out already,” Sean said, his heart pounding so rapidly that his hearing had dulled.
    “Stay alert.” Voigt’s eyes remained straight ahead.
    The suspect had finally clued into their