"Mistaken Identity" - читать интересную книгу автора (Scottoline Lisa)3Four patrolmen crammed into a booth at Little Pete’s, taking the table farthest from the door by habit. Blue cotton epaulets buckled as they squeezed onto vinyl benches and radios rested silently at their thick leather belts. In the middle of the table, black nightsticks rolled together like an urban logjam. Corded blue caps, each with a heavy chrome badge affixed above a bill of black patent, sat in a row on a nearby ledge. It was early for lunch, as the night tour called every meal they ate, but James “Surf” Lenihan had another bug up his ass. Surf got his nickname because he looked the part: sun-bleached white-blond hair and a tan, muscular build from summers spent lifeguarding in South Jersey. Surf had the antsy metabolism of a natural athlete and was always worked up about something-the new contract, the reassignments, the court time. He leaned over the table to talk, even though Little Pete’s was practically empty. “It’s for real,” Surf whispered, but Sean McShea laughed so hard he almost choked on his cheesesteak, and Art Reston called Surf a horse’s ass. “Why you swallow shit like that?” Reston asked, shaking his head. He was tall and strong, with a well-groomed dark mustache that hid a too-thin upper lip and brown eyes that glinted with occupational skepticism. Reston ’s fifteen years on the force had taught him never to believe anything unless ballistics, forensics, or the union president swore to it. “It’s true, okay?” Surf raked a hand through a thatch of bangs. “Rosato is Connolly’s twin. I heard it from Katie’s girlfriend, the one who works at the house. She told Katie that Rosato visited today.” “The girlfriend’s puttin’ you on.” Reston dropped his pepper ham hoagie into a red plastic basket shaped unaccountably like a boat. Next to him, Sean McShea, still laughing, wrested a napkin from the steel dispenser. A chubby, cheerful man with a bulbous nose and ruddy cheeks, McShea was a natural for the Santa Claus gig at Children’s Hospital. His large face reddened with mirth as he wiped his mouth, leaving a blot of ketchup on the pebbled napkin. “She’s not puttin’ me on,” Surf said. “Why would she?” “Fuck if I know. Maybe she’s got the hots. Wants you to throw her a bone-yours.” Reston laughed, but Surf’s face remained a mask of alarm. “You don’t believe me, we can check the logs. I’m tellin’ you. Rosato was there. Katie said they look alike, too.” “Bullshit.” McShea finally stopped laughing and wiped his eyes with the other end of the stained napkin. “If they looked that much alike, somebody woulda noticed it.” “No.” Surf shook his head. “Connolly’s hair is dyed red. Rosato’s a blonde. Also, Rosato’s heavier, remember?” “No, I never even saw Rosato. I could give a flying fuck.” Reston snorted. “It’s a con, kid. A hustle. Connolly is the master of shit like that. Look how she scammed us.” “So what if it’s a scam? It doesn’t matter. If Connolly gets Rosato on her case, we’re fucked.” Next to Surf, Joe Citrone listened in his typical stony silence. Joe was near retirement age, tall, with a bony nose that was bracketed by elongated wrinkles around a small mouth and a sharp chin. Joe didn’t talk much and always looked sad to Surf because he had those dark circles under his eyes that Italians get. Still, Joe was the smartest cop Surf knew. “Joe,” Surf said, turning to him. “What do you think? Katie’s girlfriend says they’re look-alikes. Why would she shit us?” “Don’t know.” “Do you know Katie’s girlfriend? You know everybody.” “Scotty’s daughter.” “That’s her. So, would she bullshit Katie about something like this?” “Don’t know.” “You think they’re twins?” “Don’t know.” McShea started laughing again. “Joe on the witness stand: ‘No.’ ‘No.’ ‘No.’ ‘No.’ ‘Don’t know.’ ” “The Joe Game! The Joe Game! The Joe Game!” they shouted, banging on the table, except for Surf. It was the Joe Game and they played it all the time to get a rise out of Citrone. “Here’s Joe at home,” Reston said, starting. “The wife says, ‘Honey, you want spaghetti?’ ‘Don’t know.’ ‘Honey, you havin’ fun at Disney World?’ ‘Don’t know.’ ‘Honey, you love me?’ ‘No.’ ” McShea slapped the table with a heavy hand. “I got one! Joe in bed.” His animated features fell into deadpan. “‘No.’ ‘No.’ ‘No.’ ‘ Citrone ignored their laughter and finished his cheesesteak, which only made McShea and Reston laugh harder. Surf couldn’t stand it. What was the matter with these assholes? Maybe Joe wasn’t smart at all. Maybe he just never said enough to sound stupid. “I shoulda never got involved,” Surf said. “I knew it. Goddammit, I knew it.” “Shut up with that, you’re embarrassing yourself.” Reston made a face. “Ooh, I’m ascared of Rosato.” Surf kept shaking his head. “She’s smarter than that turd who’s on the case now. And she ain’t ours.” “Big deal,” Reston said. “She got an all-girl law firm. Hey, you think they get their periods at the same time?” He nudged McShea. “What a fuckin’ nightmare. Lawyers on their periods.” McShea stopped laughing when he caught the concern on Surf’s face, then reached over and chucked the junior cop on the chin. “Don’t worry, girlfriend. If Rosato takes the case, which I tell you she won’t, she won’t have time to get ready. What is it, a week away, and half that time she’ll be givin’ interviews. Newspapers, TV, cable. You know how she is. When she’s not at the bank, she’s in front of the camera.” “I’ll do something about this, if you won’t.” Citrone rubbed his fingertips together, brushing off invisible crumbs. “Don’t, kid,” he said quietly. “Don’t what? Deal with it?” Citrone’s expression didn’t change. “Just, don’t.” “I can deal with it. I know what to do. I can’t sit around with my thumb up my ass.” “I’ll take care of it,” Citrone said, and everybody accepted it as the last word. Everybody, that is, except Surf. |
||
|