Free Bad Men (2003) by John Connolly

thought Macy, in a brooding way. He flashed some form of ID, asked a couple of questions, then prepared to move on. He barely paused when he spotted Barron, but it was enough. He held the cop’s eyes until Barron looked away, then left the bar. Macy watched him climb into an old Mustang and drive toward the Franklin Arterial.
    “Who was that?” she asked.
    “Nobody. A fuckup.”
    He excused himself to go to the john and told the bartender to rack up two more beers. Macy was barely halfway through her first and she wasn’t planning on having another. She looked around the bar and saw Odell from Property. He stepped up beside her and touched his glass to hers.
    “End of your six,” he said. “Congratulations.”
    She shrugged and smiled. “Hey, you know who that guy was, the one who was talking to the bartender a couple of minutes ago? Drives a Mustang.”
    Odell nodded. “Charlie Parker.”
    “The PI?” As an investigator, she knew Parker had managed to track down some bad guys. He had quite a reputation, even if it was a mixed one. She had heard talk that Parker was nosing about in the department. She was curious to know why.
    “The very same.”
    “I got the impression that Barron doesn’t like him.”
    “There aren’t a whole lot of people Eric Barron does like, and Parker isn’t the kind of guy to top that list. They had a run-in a couple of years back. Parker was looking into the death of a woman, Rita Ferris. She’d been hooking a little to make ends meet. After the case was closed, Barron saw Parker at Old Port Billiards and made some comments about the woman.”
    “And?”
    “Barron went to the men’s room. Couple of minutes later Parker followed him in. Only Parker came out. Barron never spoke about what happened in there, but he’s got a scar at the right side of his mouth”—Odell pointed with his finger to his own mouth—“that maybe I wouldn’t mention to him, you see what I mean?”
    “People who mess with cops don’t usually walk away from it so easily.”
    “You see anyone rushing to defend Barron’s honor?”
    “I guess not. I hear Parker’s been asking about cops.”
    “Cops, rent-a-cops, private security. He’s pissing off all the wrong people.”
    “You know why?”
    “Case a couple of months back. Someone tried to pull a boy from the street, over in Gorham. Kid was huffing lighter fuel and was pretty much off his head to begin with, so he couldn’t recall much, but he claimed the guy was wearing a uniform under his jacket, and he thought he could see a gun. His parents have money and they’ve hired Parker to ask some questions. They’re afraid the guy might make a play again, either on their kid or someone else’s.”
    Barron returned from the men’s room, and nodded a curt greeting to Odell.
    “See you ’round, I guess,” Odell said to Macy. He nodded at Barron—“Eric”—then went back to his buddies
    “What did he want?” asked Barron.
    “Nothing, just wanted to congratulate me on finishing my six.” She could sense Barron simmering beside her. He had a short fuse, and it seemed a good idea to try to stamp it out before the powder keg ignited.
    “Tell me more about the island,” she said.
    Barron told her that Dutch Island, or Sanctuary as it was sometimes known, was within the jurisdiction of the Portland Police Department, despite its status as the most remote of the inhabited islands on Casco Bay. Dutch wasn’t the only island that required a police presence of this kind, but it was the least hospitable. Most Portland cops never had to spend time there. It had one resident policeman, and a couple of others who traveled out on a rotation system. On the other island policed by the Portland PD, Peaks Island, two officers headed out on a boat every day. But when the boat left for Dutch, there was often only one cop on board.
    “Why has it got two names?”
    “To make it sound interesting,” said Barron. “But believe me, it isn’t. What more do