Free Walking the Perfect Square by Reed Farrel Coleman Page A

place where the folks have been at, knocked on and passed most of the way through death’s door.
    “How’s Mr. Bryson?”
    “Not very well,” her eyes frowned. “The cancer has spread to most of his vital organs. Though he hasn’t shared his burden with me, I suspect he’s got something he needs desperately to share with you before leaving us. I think it’s the only thing that’s kept him alive these last few days.”
    “Can I go see him, sister?”
    “Unfortunately, he was in such pain we had to load him full of morphine. He’s lost consciousness for the moment. It could be hours before he comes to. If—”
    “—he ever does regain consciousness,” I finished her thought. She suggested I get something to eat. The New Haven area, Sister Margaret proudly assured me, was famous for its brick-oven pizza. There were several wonderful pizzerias within a short driving distance. There was even one I could walk to, but she didn’t recommend it. Their cheese was too salty. She would take my cell phone number and call if Mr. Bryson’s condition improved sufficiently to allow us to speak.
    I hesitated.
    “Can I ask you something, Mr. Prager?”
    “Certainly.”
    “I’ve read the article Mr. Bryson keeps with him about Patrick Maloney, but I’m not clear about your connection. I confess,” she blushed slightly, “to being more than a bit curious.”
    “And I’m probably more curious about Mr. Bryson. Tell me, sister, does the RN squared get a dinner break? Because if she does . . .”
    “I’ll call and order the pizza. What’s your phone number? I’ll leave it at the front desk. We can be back here in five minutes. Oh,” she turned back after I gave her the number, “what do you like on your pizza?”
    “Anything but anchovies.”
    She gave me the thumbs up and fairly ran to the front desk. I punched in Sarah’s number once more, the real anniversary of her birth having passed unmarked some minutes before. Just as before, the phone went unanswered.

February 2nd, 1978
    WORKING AGAINST THE coffee, it took a three-jigger visit with my bottle of Dewars to put my head to the pillow. When I was on the job, I’d taken great pains to guard against falling into the bottle. Now, between my lunch with Sully and this morning’s nightcap, I’d consumed more hard liquor in two days than in the last few months. Over the years, I’d seen old John Barleycorn take down more good cops than all the bombs, bullets and bribes combined. And by a long stretch, too. The pattern was pretty much the same: one drink to unwind after a shift became two, became three. Soon, the line between the shift and the unwinding became a drunken blur.
    It was closer to dinner than to lunch when I did get up, that stale smell of scotch and coffee on my breath. Again I was vaguely aware of having dreamed, but of what or whom I couldn’t say. I can say that my first thought was of the smiling woman in the peacoat. I elected to believe I dreamed of her. Better her than the floater.
    I’d tried Rico several times at the task force office without any luck. Finally, I risked a call to his home and got the second Mrs. Tripoli on the phone. Initially, she sounded about as happy to hear from me as from an oncologist. I don’t think she hated me necessarily, but I suspect she regarded all of Rico’s cop friends as threats. We managed to get through the conversation without exchanging hostilities. She wondered if I’d made any progress in finding Patrick. I told her it was hard to know. She even asked about my knee.
    Rico, she said, had been sent down to Florida to pick up a fugitive who was willing to shed light on the task force’s case. She couldn’t tell me exactly when he’d be back. Two or three days, she
thought. Before hanging up, I asked for the Maloneys’ address and phone number. She hesitated, curious about why I didn’t already have that information. I considered telling her the truth, but reconsidered. After all, I was a big