Walking Shadows. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ you just tell her to keep the case confidential?”

      “I already told her to keep the case under wraps. She was a detective. She’s a trained police officer. She knows about confidentiality, and so does the chief. If I make a big deal about it, it’ll seem like: (a) I don’t trust her—which I don’t—and (b) I’m suspicious of her dad—which I’m not. If there’s tension between father and daughter, it’ll make my life harder. Let’s go.”

      They walked out of the station together toward Decker’s car. McAdams said, “Do you think Chief Baccus put his daughter on the team to keep an eye on the investigation? It was an odd request.”

      “Yes, it was. I don’t know what his motivations were. So far, I’ll just take him at his word and concentrate on the case in front of us.”

      McAdams climbed into the passenger seat. “I still think it’s weird.”

      “Harvard, you’re a cautious guy. I’m a cautious guy. Until we know what’s going on, we’ll keep the conversation between us. Just think about what I said the next time you go out with Lennie for lunch.”

      “I didn’t go out with her,” McAdams insisted. “I just offered her a seat at my table.” He paused. “Do you think she was trying to pump me for information?”

      Decker turned on the ignition. “What’d you talk about?”

      “Just shooting the shit. I talked about Harvard Law, she talked about her time with Philadelphia PD. I didn’t tell her about Cindy, by the way.”

      “Of course you didn’t.” Decker edged out of the police lot and onto the street. “It would have been bonehead stupid if you did, and you’re not bonehead stupid. If you talk to her outside of work, keep it neutral. That’s all I’m saying.”

      “You don’t trust her?”

      “She’s new. I don’t trust anyone new. In reality, I don’t trust anyone unless I’ve worked with them for a very long time.”

      “So cynical.”

      “No, you’re cynical. I’m just wary.”

      “How long before you trusted me?”

      “About a year. After you got shot.”

      McAdams was shocked. “I needed a hit with a lethal weapon before you trusted me?”

      “I would have trusted you eventually, Harvard.” Decker smiled. “Taking a bullet for me just sped things up.”

       CHAPTER 7

      THE BITSBY AREA was one step above blighted. It had an oversupply of bail bond houses, twenty-four-hour convenience stores with bars on the windows, seedy motels, OTB outlets, deep discount electronics stores, and pawnbrokers. There were blocks of weed-choked lots and junkyards secured by chain link. The uneven roads were pocked with potholes, and the sidewalks were tattooed in graffiti. Streetlights looked few and far between. Decker had no idea how bright the lamps shone because the sun was still out when he and McAdams arrived at Brandy Neil’s apartment.

      The woman who answered was thirty with a thin face that bordered on emaciated. She wore no makeup, her filmy blue eyes looking tired and sad. Oddly, her face was framed with luxuriant chestnut-colored hair that had been set in waves and curls. She wore denim jeans and a black T-shirt. Her feet were bare. After Decker made the introductions, Brandy invited them in; her voice was soft and sober.

      Stepping over the threshold, Decker thought about Lennie’s description of an arm’s-span apartment. This one was made even more claustrophobic because the ceiling was low—an acoustical, popcorn top, which meant the place was probably built in the ’60s or ’70s. It was spare in furniture and spare of personal items. The couch was floral in yellow and blue, the material torn and worn. She invited them to sit on it, and the men complied.

      “Coffee?”

      “Water, if you wouldn’t mind,” Decker said.

      “And you, Detective?” She was looking at McAdams.

      “Water as well. Tap is fine.”

      “Times two.” Decker pulled out his notepad.

      She got up and went to a back counter that held a two-burner cooktop and a microwave oven. The fridge was bar sized and sat under the cabinets. She took out glasses and filled three cups from the tap. She handed out the water, and then she sat down. “I don’t know what I can tell you that will help. I don’t know a lot about Brady’s life. I mean, about his life after I left. When we lived as a family under one roof, it was hell.”

      “How so?” Decker said.

      “Well, I’m hoping you know about my dad so I won’t have to get into all that shit.”

      “I do know. You were shunned after he was jailed?”

      “We were terrorized. We had to move thirty miles north to Grayborn—a little shit town with a nice name. We lived there for about three years until Mom brought us back to Bitsby and enrolled us in school under her maiden name, Neil. By then I was around fourteen. Of course, my classmates knew who I was, but now we were all teenagers. They fell into two categories about me. In the first group, I was a total pariah. In the second one—the bad kids—having a parent in prison for murder was cool. Guess which group I fell into.”

      “Not hard to understand.”

      “I dropped out at sixteen. I was a druggie and a groupie and a horrible influence on Brady. Mom and I fought all the time, but I never expected her to kick me out.” She looked down. “But she did, and things worked out well. Being self-reliant made me get my act together very quickly. I got a job with a very kind boss who knows who I am and what I went through.”

      “What do you do?” McAdams asked.

      “I’m a bookkeeper, believe it or not. I was always good with numbers. So was Dad, and that’s probably what got him in trouble initially. Dad gambled. Mom used to tell me he had a system. It worked for a while, but then it failed and he got into debt. Real bad debt. Hence the robbery—robberies. The Levines were probably not the first.”

      McAdams said, “Forgive me for saying this, but you must have a very unusual boss.”

      “Every week, I go over everything with his wife or with him. All invoices, payments out and payments received. I leave nothing up to chance.”

      “What business is your boss in?” Decker said.

      “Paper supplies. He wholesales out everything from typing paper and lined notebooks to high-quality stationery. I’ve turned my life around. I’ve got a little money in an IRA and a little money in the bank. I live in this shithole place in this shithole area because it’s cheap and all I want is somewhere to rest my head at night. I’m not saying my party days are over. If someone else foots the bill, I’ll go out. But I’m not paying for drinks that are pissed out in an hour and leave me with a bad headache. Most of the time, I live like a monk.”

      “And you’re СКАЧАТЬ