Detective On The Hunt. Marilyn Pappano

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      With a silent sigh of relief at passing room 318 unnoticed, Quint stopped at 327 and rapped on the door. The voice that called a response was soft, frail, sounding like a fragile old lady summoning up her dying breath to invite them in.

      He knew better.

      Georgia Madison’s apartment consisted of a tiny kitchen that went mostly unused, a small living room and, visible through an open door, a bedroom. It was brightly lit to offset the gloominess outside, with table lamps and hanging globes of vivid colored glass. They were every shape and size: royal blue beside an orange the shade of JJ’s ring, sunny yellow and green and a red that set the standard for all reds.

      Georgia was sitting in a recliner near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her hair was a mix of faded black, steel gray and white, her face lined with wrinkles, her eyes displaying her perpetual distrust of the unexpected. When she recognized him, some of the distrust faded, only to return in intensity at the sight of JJ.

      “First time you come to see me in months, and you bring a copper with you?” She shook her head with mild disgust. Then she broke into a smile for him. “How are you, Quint?”

      “I’m good, Georgie.” It was a blatant lie, and going by her second head shake, this one with mild sorrow, she recognized it.

      He gestured to JJ, who’d stopped beside him. “Mrs. Georgia Madison, this is JJ Logan. You’re right, she is a cop. But she’s not out to get you.”

      “All cops are out to get everyone.” The old lady gave JJ an appraising look, then nodded. “Sit. Ask your questions.”

      JJ chose the couch, settling naturally into that perfect posture he’d noted earlier. Quint sat with a creak in the rocker a few feet to her left. The chair was old, the finish faded, but it was comfortable in ways a brand-new one could never be. He’d always sat in this chair when he’d visited the Madison home as a kid. It had squeaked badly even back then, and rocking in it had been one of his pleasures, until the inevitable warning from whichever adult was closest to please stop that.

      He hadn’t thought about the chair, or those visits, or that time of his life in a very long while.

      “How did you know I’m a cop?” JJ asked.

      “Really? That’s the question you want to lead with?” Georgie gave an eye roll and a sigh, both heavily exaggerated. “It’s the look. Quint has it. That good-looking Little Bear kid he works with has it, that little guy, Harper—hell, everyone down there at thug headquarters. All good cops have the look.”

      JJ considered, then accepted her answer as a compliment if her satisfied look was anything to judge by. “Do you prefer that I call you Mrs. Madison, Miss Georgia or Georgie?”

      “Quint’s the only one in this room who can call me Georgie. For all other coppers, it’s Mrs. Madison.”

      “All right, Mrs. Madison, can I ask you a few questions about the woman renting your house on Willow Street?”

      “You can ask whatever you want, and I’ll answer whatever I want. And of course it’s my house on Willow Street. It’s the only house I own.” She humphed. “So? What do you want to know? I’m ninety-six years old, honey. Time’s a-wasting.”

      JJ muttered, “And they say the good die young.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her mouth hardly moved, but that wasn’t going to save her, Quint knew. Georgie heard everything.

      Georgie’s brows drew together in a frown. He thought for half a second about intervening but decided against it. The old woman was more than happy to spread her ire around, and he was more than willing to let her. Instead, he sat back, rested his ankle on the other knee and rubbed at a scuff on his boot.

      “Let me tell you something, little girl. Disrespecting a fragile elderly woman that you want information from isn’t the smartest way to go. My hair may be gray, my bones may be weak and my body may be giving up while I’m still using it, but my hearing is as good as ever, so a little politeness is in order here.”

      Quint waited for JJ’s flush, for her eyes to widen with dismay and words of apology to tumble out of her mouth. That was how people always reacted to Georgie, especially coppers. But not this one. JJ arched one brow and fixed her steady, challenging gaze on her adversary. “That politeness extends both ways. Besides, I bet you never aspired to be good or die young, so that’s probably more of a compliment than an insult.”

      Okay, she’d surprised him. He wouldn’t be surprised by Georgie’s response, because he had zero idea what it would be. He’d never known anyone who, when dressed down by Georgie for her attitude, displayed even more attitude.

      He should have left JJ downstairs in the lobby. Better yet, he should have just called Georgie and asked about Maura. But hell, who ever would have thought he would be the more tactful of any two people in the world?

      Georgie’s stare simmered for a long moment, then she pointed one long, thin finger JJ’s way. “You should be scared of me.”