Gone, Baby, Gone - Dennis Lehane [23]
“And that’s all you think her lying about her whereabouts amounts to?” I said.
“Probably,” Broussard said. He wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin, pushed his plate away. “Don’t get us wrong. We’re going over to her brother’s place in a few minutes, and we’re going to tear her a new asshole for lying to us. And if there is more to it, we’ll find out.” He tipped his hand toward us. “Thanks to you two.”
“How long have you been on this case?” Poole asked.
Angie looked at her watch. “Since late last night.”
“And you already uncovered something we missed?” Poole chuckled. “You two might be as capable as we’ve heard.”
Angie batted her eyelashes. “Gee, gosh.”
Broussard smiled. “I hang out with Oscar Lee sometimes. We both came up through the Housing Police about a million years ago. After Gerry Glynn got put down in that playground a couple years back, I asked Oscar about you two. Want to know what he said?”
I shrugged. “Knowing Oscar, it was probably profane.”
Broussard nodded. “He said you two were major fuckups in most aspects of your lives.”
“Sounds like Oscar,” Angie said.
“But he also said once you both got it into your heads that you were going to close a case, not even God himself could call you off.”
“That Oscar,” I said, “he’s a peach.”
“So now you’re on the same case we are.” Poole folded his napkin delicately and placed it on top of his plate.
“That bother you?” Angie said.
Poole looked at Broussard. Broussard shrugged.
“It doesn’t bother us in principle,” Poole said.
“But,” Broussard said, “there should be some ground rules.”
“Such as?”
“Such as…” Poole removed a pack of cigarettes. He pulled off the cellophane slowly, then removed the tinfoil and pulled out an unfiltered Camel. He sniffed it, inhaling the tobacco scent deep into his nostrils as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Then he leaned forward and ground the unlit cigarette into the ashtray until it snapped in half. He placed the pack back in his pocket.
Broussard smiled at us, his left eyebrow cocked.
Poole noticed us staring at him. “I beg your pardon. I quit.”
“When?” Angie said.
“Two years ago. But I still need the rituals.” He smiled. “Rituals are important.”
Angie reached into her purse. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Oh, God, would you?” Poole said.
He watched Angie light her cigarette; then his head shifted slightly and his eyes cleared and found mine, seemed capable of gaining entrance to the core of my brain or my soul with a blink.
“Ground rules,” he said. “We can’t have any press leaks. You’re friends with Richie Colgan of the Trib.”
I nodded.
“Colgan’s no friend of the police,” Broussard said.
Angie said, “It’s not his job to be a friend. It’s his job to be a reporter.”
“And I have no argument with that,” Poole said. “But I can’t have anyone in the press knowing anything we don’t want him to regarding this investigation. Agreed?”
I looked at Angie. She studied Poole through her cigarette smoke. Eventually, she nodded. I said, “Agreed.”
“Magic!” Poole said with a Scottish accent.
“Where did you get this guy?” Angie asked Broussard.
“They pay me an extra hundred a week to work with him. Hazardous duty pay.”
Poole leaned into the current of Angie’s cigarette smoke, sniffed it. “Second,” he said. “You two are unorthodox. That’s fine. But we can’t have you associated with this case and find out you’re exposing firearms and threatening information out of people, à la Mr. Big Dave Strand.”
Angie said, “Big Dave Strand was about to rape me, Sergeant Raftopoulos.”
“I understand,” Poole said.
“No, you don’t,” Angie said. “You have no idea.”
Poole nodded. “I apologize. However, you assure us that what happened to Big Dave this afternoon was an aberration? One that won’t be repeated?”
“We do,” Angie said.
“Well, I’ll take you at your word. How do you feel about our terms so far?”
“If we’re going to agree not to leak to the press, which, believe me, will strain our relationship with Richie Colgan, then