Free Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) by Colin Campbell Page A

Best time to get at your memory is as soon as you can talk. Deep memory trawls up little details anything from twenty-four hours to a week later. We need a statement as soon as you can.”
    â€œGet me out of this, and I’ll write one now.”
    Kincaid shook his head. A WCVB news helicopter hovered, trying to get one last shot of the breaking story. The noise was deafening, so he closed the back door. It didn’t help much. He raised his voice.
    â€œCan’t. Once they’ve checked you out at the hospital, I’ll drop some statement forms off. Oh”—he jerked a thumb at the helicopter noise—“and don’t talk to the press.”
    Grant would have shaken his head if it hadn’t been strapped tight. “Me and the press—not on good terms.”
    â€œSnake Pass?”
    â€œAmong other things.”
    â€œThey’re not going to make you a police spokesman, then?”
    â€œIt’s spokesperson in the UK now.”
    â€œHere too. But fuck ’em, I say.”
    â€œD’you still have manholes in the US?”
    â€œOnly the ones we shit out of.”
    â€œSo long as you don’t say fuck them too.”
    Kincaid laughed. It was a deep, booming sound that rivaled the helicopter. It gave Grant hope for the future. A laugh like that meant Kincaid was a man’s man. At a time like this, men’s men were what you needed. Call it sexist, but Grant was a man’s man too. The door opened, and throbbing helicopter noise filled the ambulance. It slowly died away as the chopper gained height, then flew off.
    Miller stood on the step and looked inside, concern etched on his face. Grant could only see him if he depressed his eyes. Miller’s concern touched him. He was a good kid—would no doubt make a good cop.
    Kincaid climbed out the back. “Miller will ride with you. In case you give a dying declaration.”
    â€œHere’s a declaration.” Kincaid waited for the parting shot, but Grant was being serious. “Sullivan said to look after his brother. You know where he is?”
    â€œWe’re working on it. Get well soon.”
    Miller climbed in. Kincaid stepped back and shut the door. He slapped the side of the ambulance, and it set off for the hospital.

ten
    They wanted to cut Grant’s clothes off. Massachusetts General may have been the third oldest hospital in America and the largest in New England, but they didn’t have enough staff for Grant to let them cut his clothes off. Boston Medical almost became Boston Legal until the nurse examining him realized Grant could take his clothes off himself.
    The nurse wasn’t amused.
    The pain wasn’t funny either.
    The nurse smiled. “You’re going to look awful stupid if your arm drops off trying to get out of that orange jacket.”
    â€œIt’s my favorite.”
    â€œWhich is your favorite arm? The other one?”
    â€œMy favorite nurse was the other one.”
    â€œThere is no other one.”
    â€œAny other one. Give me a hand here, will you?”
    The nurse pursed her lips and folded her arms. She tapped one shoe as if keeping beat with an unheard song. It was a soft and sensible shoe. It didn’t tap at all, but the effect was the same. Don’t mess with me, the pose said. Grant stopped struggling with his jacket and looked her square in the eye. It was his turn to smile. “Please?”
    The shoe stopped tapping, but the arms remained stubbornly folded. Despite the smell of antiseptic and voided bowels, a flowery scent wafted off her like roses in the summer. She was short and wiry and looked like she could wrestle alligators. All muscle and determination. The smile didn’t work on her. Not straightaway.
    â€œYou’re that cop from England, aren’t you?”
    Grant looked blank. He wondered what Miller had said before he left. There wasn’t going to be any dying declaration, and they’d needed him back at