Free Irish Eyes by Mary Kay Andrews Page B

chili dogs, an order of rings, a fried apple pie, and a Coke for C.W., and a plain hamburger and Diet Coke for me.
    “You getting prissy on me, Garrity?” C.W. asked. “Was a time, you could outeat anybody, anytime.”
    “Ten years ago,” I said. “Right now, my idea of middle-aged crazy is having half-and-half in my decaf espresso.”
    He shifted his weight in the front seat of the van. I knew he was trying to get comfortable.
    “What’s so bad you couldn’t talk about it in the hospital?” I asked. “You’re giving me bad vibes, Hunsecker.”
    “It’s not me putting out the vibes,” he replied. “It’s those Shamrocks.”
    “You’re getting me mad with all these Irish put-downs,” I warned. “If you know something, tell me.”
    He chewed his chili dog, took a sip of Coke. “I don’t know anything. I’m not on the force, and I mind my own business. Don’t have many connections anymore. But Linda and her girlfriends, well, you know how gals like to gossip.”
    I narrowed my eyes. “You’re treading on thin ice here, bub.”
    He sighed. “I’m just trying to tell you how it is. Gossip, or at least that’s what we thought. It was just something Linda overheard. The women detectives, they all get together once a month, it’s a girls’ night out kind of thing. Linda goes, ‘cause she misses seeing her girlfriends. Misses the action.”
    “Don’t we all?”
    “They were at some Mexican restaurant they always go to. Place has dollar margaritas. It was late, the tequila was flowing pretty good. There were maybe a dozen gals there, all cops or cops’ wives. Linda went in the ladies’ room, and as she’s fixing her makeup, she hears these two women talking, stall to stall. ‘Where’s Kirstee tonight?’ one of the women asks. Kirstee, that’s Kirstee Boylan, she’s a detective in auto burglary, married to your old boyfriend. She’s what? Wife number three or four?”
    “Who’s counting?” I said.
    “Anyway, the other one says, ‘She’s working security at a bank in Buckhead, at least that’s the story she gave me.’ And the other gal, she kinda laughs. ‘You see that brand-new BMW she’s driving? I need me a job like that.’ And the other woman says, ‘Don’t joke. Okay? It’s not funny. Somebody’s gonna get hurt. I told her she’s crazy messing with that shit.’
    “Linda tiptoed out, waited around outside to see who the women were. It was two gals who work in vice. Gals Linda’s known for years.”
    “Did she find out what they were talking about?”
    “Not that night. She felt funny about asking. Next day, she made some phone calls. Nothing. But you know how Linda gets. She’s like a terrier, once she’s on something. So she had me make some calls. About Kirstee Boylan. What kind of security work she does.”
    “And what did you find out?”
    C.W. dipped an onion ring in a paper cup of ketchup, then covered it with a frosting of salt. “Nothing. I’ve got a buddy in records. I had him check. You know, there’s a new policy, cops have to have written approval to work off-duty.”
    “That’s what I heard last night. And that’s why internal affairs is so interested in Bucky.”
    “That’s just it,” C.W. said. “Kirstee Boylan isn’t approved to work any off-duty security jobs.”
    “So she forgot to get her permission slip signed,” I said.
    “Lots of people forgot a lot of stuff,” Hunsecker said. “After I read that story in today’s paper, I got curious. Called my buddy back. All of a sudden, Kirstee Boylan’s been approved to work two nights a week at the SouthBank branch on Roswell Road. And according to the records, the approval was signed two months ago.”
    “You’re not the only one with friends in the right places,” I observed. “She covered her ass. Got the permission postdated. I still fail to see anything sinister in any of this.”
    “I run a security business, provide guards to places like banks,” Hunsecker reminded me. “We