Stranglehold by Ed Gorman Page B

even saw me. Sitting there in her rumpled, fake leather jacket and blue jeans, she seemed to see beyond me, to some other terrible realm that was summoning her.
    The man, now at the counter, had taken to shouting. “He took it for a little ride and brought it back! This is total bullshit! I want to see Cummings! That bastard has it in for my kid and won’t give him a break!”
    The woman didn’t turn her head to watch her husband. But each time his voice got especially loud her body would jerk as if she’d been stabbed.
    The man came over and sat down in the chair next to hers. He took her hand, a surprising bit of gentleness given his flinty face with its broken nose and scars across the left side of his throat, the same tender way Bobby treated Gwen. This man had a full dark gray-streaked beard and massive arms sticking out of his yellow sports shirt. His Bears cap had a union button on it.
    She put her head to his shoulder and said, “This time they’ll send him to a real prison, Bob. A real prison.”
    â€œThose sons of bitches,” he said.
    After my years in army intelligence, when I’d functioned pretty much as a detective, I’d thought about joining a police force somewhere. I’d spent three nights in a squad car riding around Chicago. The dangers I’d seen were tolerable; there’d been moments when they’d been exhilarating. But the heartbreak was what I couldn’t handle. The beaten wives and the forlorn children, the sad junkies, the prisons of poverty, the people afraid to walk the streets of their own neighborhoods. I didn’t have the gut for it.
    I studied their faces as they slumped together across from me, the eternal grief of parents whose child is in serious trouble.
    Detective Kapoor wore a wine-red blouse and a black skirt today. She was a dream of radiance and charm. “Mr. Conrad, if you’d like to follow me.” She made no eye contact with the couple on the chairs.
    â€œI’m meeting a lawyer here in a few minutes. A Mr. Shapiro.”
    The smile was enigmatic. “Oh, yes, Mr. Shapiro.”
    I couldn’t tell if her tone was disapproval or some kind of amusement. When I got to my feet I felt guilty a moment for deserting the couple across from me. As if I should have stayed with them in silent commiseration. But I was relieved, too. I had a desperate situation of my own to tend to.
    Her office was small but organized with ruthless efficiency. God forbid that anything was out of place. She had a Mac and a window and a framed photograph of her with a very young girl who resembled her a good deal. Her desk was cleared and her pencils, six yellow ones, were lined up like bullets next to a small notepad.
    â€œI’m wondering why you’re here, Mr. Conrad. And what your interest is in Bobby Flaherty.”
    â€œI’m a friend of Mr. Flaherty’s wife.”
    â€œI see. But a young woman like that—would you mind telling me how you know her?”
    â€œI’m just a friend.”
    â€œSo you’ve known her for a long time?”
    â€œNot a long time. But some time.”
    This was her morning for enigmatic smiles. “Jim Shapiro doesn’t come cheap.”
    â€œI assumed that was the case.”
    â€œAnd Mr. Flaherty certainly won’t be able to afford him.”
    â€œI assumed that would be the case, too.”
    â€œWill you be paying Mr. Shapiro’s fees?”
    â€œI haven’t had a chance to talk about money with him yet. But I’m sure we’ll work things out.”
    â€œI’m just surprised that you’re so interested in this case.”
    â€œAs I said, Gwen is a friend of mine.”
    The knock on the half-open door was perfunctory. A tall, trim, gray-haired man came into the office. He roiled the air with his sense of energyand purpose. He looked like one of those adventurous men you see in print ads for expensive brands of whiskey, the kind of