Good Night, Gracie. Kristin Gabriel

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СКАЧАТЬ quipped. “That game was going into the fourteenth inning when I finally dragged him out of the bar. It’s not worth losing my job over.”

      But Zach, once a rabid Red Sox fan, hadn’t cared much about baseball over the past three months. All he cared about right now was solving this case. “Brannigan didn’t say anything to me about moving the operation.”

      “We’re not moving it,” Jason said. “We’re shutting it down.”

      Zach stared at him. “Like hell.”

      Shawn moved past him. “Sorry, Maddox, but we’ve got our orders. If you don’t like it, you’ll just have to talk to the boss. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can get back to the game.”

      Zach followed them into the small office and watched them unplug all the cables from the computer. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Adding to his irritation was the fact that he hadn’t gotten a chance to reply to Gracie’s e-mail.

      Certain there had to be a misunderstanding, Zach left the house and drove to Brannigan’s home. The trip from Holloway’s home on the south side of Boston took almost an hour. It was only when Brannigan answered his door wearing a robe and a scowl did Zach consider that he should have called first.

      “Why the hell are you banging on my door at this time of night?” Thomas growled. “It sure as hell better be an emergency. My wife and kids are trying to sleep.”

      “We need to talk.”

      “Now?”

      “It won’t take long.”

      Brannigan’s scowl deepened, but he opened the door wider and waved Zach inside. “Make it quick.”

      Zach crossed the threshold, almost tripping over a stuffed teddy bear in the foyer. Brannigan had four kids under the age of ten, a fact that was evident everywhere Zach looked. The toys littering the floor. The family pictures covering the wall. The cookie crumbs on the coffee table.

      A sharp contrast to Zach’s place, which barely had any furniture. Just a sofa, a bed, and a thirteen-inch television set. Not that he minded the Spartan environment, since he didn’t spend much time there anyway.

      “Well, get to it.” Thomas tossed a Barbie doll off the sofa cushion before taking a seat.

      “I heard a rumor that you’re shutting down the Holloway case.”

      “It’s no rumor,” Thomas replied. “You know as well as I do that this case has reached a dead end. We can’t afford to waste any more time on it.”

      Waste time? Zach was certain he couldn’t be hearing him right. “So we just forget about it? Forget that Ray will never walk again? Forget that the scum who shot him is still out there somewhere?”

      Brannigan’s face hardened. “I’ll never forget what happened to Ray. But you’ve been pushing the boundaries with this case ever since Ray got shot. I’ve given you some leeway, because he was your partner, but enough is enough. There are other cases to solve—other perps who need to be apprehended.”

      Zach rifled a hand through his hair, grappling for a way to change Brannigan’s mind. His boss was a stubborn Irishman, but even he had to know this was a big mistake.

      “You look like hell,” Thomas said, scowling at him. “When was the last time you shaved?”

      “Why the hell does it matter? I’ve been busy.”

      “You’ve been obsessed,” his boss countered. “I tried to call you at home tonight to give you the news about the investigation, but I had to leave a message on your machine. You were sitting in front of that damn computer at the Holloway house again, weren’t you?”

      “That’s my job,” Zach reminded him.

      “Don’t give me that crap,” Thomas spit out. “You’re not on duty twenty-four hours a day. You’ve lost weight and look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

      “Maybe if you worried as much about this investigation as you do about my appearance, we’d have found Gilbert Holloway by now.”

      Thomas slowly rose to his feet. “I’ve about had it with your attitude, Maddox. Don’t push me.”

      But Zach didn’t back off. “Hell, somebody’s got to do it if we’re ever going to find the bastard who shot Ray.”

      Thomas stared at him, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I think it’s time you took a vacation.”

      “I don’t need a damn vacation. I just need to work this case.”

      “That’s not going to happen. You’re off the case and off the force for the next thirty days. Effective immediately.”

      His words were like a sucker punch to the gut. “You’re suspending me?”

      “Call it a mandatory vacation,” Brannigan replied. “There’s more to life than the job, Zach. You’re going to burn out at this rate. You need to find yourself a beach somewhere in the Caribbean and start hunting for women instead of criminals.”

      He recognized that obstinate glint in Brannigan’s green eyes. The man wasn’t going to change his mind. Zach had gone too far this time.

      “Now go home,” Thomas ordered, ushering him to the door, “and get some sleep. I don’t want to see you for at least a month.”

      Before he could say another word, Zach found himself standing outside, the door slammed in his face. He’d blown it. Standing on the front porch, he replayed their conversation over in his mind, wondering if there was something else he could have said to convince Brannigan to change his mind.

      It was too late now. He was off the case. But he had no desire to play beach bum for the next four weeks. There was only one place he wanted to go—one person he wanted to see. And the reasons why he should stay away didn’t seem to matter anymore.

      “Gracie Dawson, here I come.”

      2

      THE NIGHT OF HER HIGH SCHOOL reunion, Gracie stepped into Between the Covers wearing her borrowed black dress and matching stilettos, feeling a little like Cinderella. Only she didn’t intend to run away from her Prince Charming at midnight. Just the opposite, in fact.

      She’d spent hours preparing for this night, grateful the reunion was in Kendall so she didn’t have to factor in travel time. Yet, there was something pathetic about the fact that she hadn’t left this place for the past ten years. Most of her classmates would be coming in from long distances.

      “How do I look?” she asked her assistant store manager, turning in a slow circle.

      “Sensational.” Trina Powers walked out from behind the counter, the prosthesis on her left leg visible beneath her denim miniskirt. A motorcycle accident eight years ago had led to an amputation just above Trina’s knee. Some days she used a wheelchair, but most of the time she wore the prosthesis, ignoring the stares of the customers and challenging anyone who tried to pity her.

      Despite СКАЧАТЬ