The Bone House - Brian Freeman [34]
She turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving him alone and in tears. Troy sank on to the bench again and covered his face in his hands. He thought about Glory, and he realized that everyone was right. Mrs Fischer was right. His dad was right. He'd had a chance to prove himself, and he'd failed.
He really was useless.
* * *
Chapter Twelve
Cab found Mark Bradley inside the interview room, along with a rotund older man who sported a lion's mane of curly gray hair and a devilishly pointed goatee. He was impeccably dressed in a gray suit with a buttoned vest and a pink tie. As Cab entered, the older man jumped to his feet with a spry bounce, hopped round the wooden table, and extended a hand. Cab shook it and felt his finger bones groaning under the man's iron grip.
'Archibald Gale,' the attorney announced. 'I don't believe we've had the pleasure before, Detective Bolton.'
Cab sat down and studied the man's eyes, which twinkled behind tiny owlish glasses. 'Meeting a lawyer really isn't my idea of pleasure, Mr Gale.'
'Ah, you're funny, Detective. I like that.'
'Are you new to Florida, Mr Gale? I thought I knew all the local criminal attorneys.' Cab said the word 'criminal' with a small smile directed at Mark Bradley.
'I've just begun wintering here. My other home is in Duluth, Minnesota.'
'I'm not familiar with that area,' Cab admitted.
'It's a beautiful place, but we've had an unusually high murder rate in recent years. That's a mixed blessing if you're a lawyer.' Gale put an arm around the shoulder of the well-built man seated beside him, whose face was smoky with caged anger. 'Detective Bolton, this is Mark Bradley.'
'Mr Bradley, I didn't recognize you without the shower going.' Cab smiled, and Bradley shot him a look of naked resentment.
'Detective, we're here as a courtesy,' Gale interjected. 'I hope we'll all be polite.'
'It's just that I'm anxious to hear Mr Bradley speak,' Cab went on. 'Whenever I'm around him, he seems to have other people talking for him.'
'This was a mistake,' Bradley said, getting out of the chair.
Gale put a gentle hand on his shoulder and eased him back into his seat. 'Don't worry, Mark. Let's just focus on the unfortunate business at hand and provide whatever information we can.'
Bradley didn't hide his impatience. Instinctively, as a result, Cab proceeded slowly. He pushed back his chair, crossed his long legs, and picked up a yellow pad of handwritten notes. Under the guise of reviewing them, he studied Mark Bradley over the top of the pad. Bradley wore a red, collared polo shirt and tan dress slacks. He had the easy, unconscious grace of an athlete when he moved and looked like a man who was comfortable in his own skin. He was attractive, but not in a Hollywood way like Cab or in the macho way that some athletes exuded. He was simply good-looking without thinking about it. His brown hair was cut short without much care. He wouldn't have been caught dead with an earring or a gold chain or cologne. His fore head and nose were so pink with sunburn that he may as well have said: I like the sun. Screw cancer.
'You look familiar, Mr Bradley,' Cab told him. 'Do I know you from somewhere?'
'I was on the PGA tour for a few years in my twenties,' Bradley replied.
'Really? Why did you give it up?'
'I injured ligaments in my shoulder in a car accident about eight years ago. It doesn't restrict my day-to-day activities, but I no longer have the precision I need to be a pro.'
'I'm sorry to hear it,' Cab said. 'Why go from golf to teaching? I assume you could coach or give lessons or something along those lines. You'd make a lot more money, wouldn't you?'
'I was a professional golfer, Detective. When you've done that, the idea of helping fifty-something investment bankers go from a thirty- six to a twenty-eight handicap doesn't sound too attractive.'
'And teaching?'
'I like working with kids. I like the flexibility of having my summers off. You may not think there are athletes who enjoy painting on the beach or talking about Henry Fielding or Chaucer,