The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3), Brian Shea [best non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

Sutherland said. His cheeks were ruddy and blotched from the booze, but he wore a serious expression.

"Sure, Sarge. What's up?"

"Not here. Let's step outside for a minute."

“Probably a good time for me to check on Mainelli,” Barnes said, taking her leave.

The two walked outside. A few other detectives were out smoking cigarettes and engaging in idle chitchat. The volume died down as the door closed behind them. It took a second for Kelly's ears to adjust to the quiet street, and soon the wind began to cut through his heavy coat.

"What's up, Sarge?"

"Listen, Mike," Sutherland said, squaring himself to Kelly. "I know you and I didn’t see eye to eye on everything. Well, one thing at least."

Kelly knew exactly what he was talking about. Sutherland hadn't backed Kelly the way he thought he should have when he'd exposed an undercover who’d gone rogue. But this did not seem the appropriate venue for the conversation. Kelly, in fact, didn't think the conversation needed to take place at all.

"Listen, I know you've only been in Homicide a minute. A year is a drop in the bucket when it comes to working body cases. But I'll tell you this—in that time you've proven to be one of the best rookie Homicide investigators I've ever had the pleasure of serving with."

Kelly took the words in stride, not sure if this conversation was a drunken rant or had a purpose.

"I'm out of here. I'm cutting tail and starting anew. I just want you to know it still haunts me what happened. I should have been stronger and stood up for you. But I wasn't."

Sutherland looked down. In that moment, Kelly had a profound respect for the sergeant. He'd liked Sutherland. He was upset at the way he had handled things on the O’Malley case, but the sergeant had proven, before and after that, to be a decent boss compared to the many Kelly had worked with in his career. Humbling himself before Kelly was a rare trait amongst cops. Maybe it was the booze or the nostalgic flood of memories, but either way, Kelly respected him for trying to close this gap.

"Listen, Sarge, there were much bigger things in play on that one."

"I know." His gruff voice was thick. "I just wish I had played it better for you. You worked your ass off on that case. You put everything on the line, and when it came time to make the final push, I wasn't there. I hope you'll forgive me."

Sutherland looked up now. Kelly, a few inches taller than the man, met his gaze.

"We're good, Sarge. Now get in there and enjoy your damn retirement party. You only get one."

Sutherland stuck out his hand to give a hearty shake and a quick back slap. The ceremonious man-hug completed, the water under the bridge flowed again as he limped away.

Kelly took a moment to clear his head in the cool, crisp air.

Before reentering the bar, Sutherland called back, "You take care of yourself, Michael Kelly. No one else will."

18

Kelly's alarm was a jackhammer in his head. With each pulsating burst of its combination vibration and chirp sound, his migraine reverberated the cacophony within his skull.

He yawned, his mouth dry and cottony. He reached out to the nightstand and blindly crept his fingers along until they found the glass. Kelly swigged the last bit of water left in the cup. It was tepid but refreshing.

Kelly had allowed himself to sleep in yesterday. He wouldn't do the same today. Looking at the alarm, he realized it had been snoozed twice since first going off at 5:30 a.m. When he collapsed into his bed after navigating his way home from Finnegan's, he knew the three hours of sleep would do little to help him reset from the night’s festivities.

As he sat up on the edge of the bed, the throbbing behind his eyes only worsened. He could still taste the sour remnants of the last shot. He couldn't remember who ordered it or what it was and doubted he ever would. The last hour of Sutherland’s retirement celebration was hazy at best. All he could pull from memory was that he'd spent most of the time hanging out with Barnes, being close but not too close.

His conversation with Sutherland outside the bar was the last cogent memory before the rest of the night faded into a wispy fog. He rubbed his feet into the shag carpet underneath his bed. At least I managed to get my shoes off before passing out. A bleed-over from his married life. Nobody got into a clean bed with a dirty body. And definitely no shoes…ever.

Kelly staggered into the hallway, using the doorframe to steady himself. He wasn’t wholly convinced a last bit of alcohol wasn’t still floating in his system. His stomach sloshed with each step. The creak of the cold wood floor beneath his foot seemed to echo, or maybe the amplification was internal, caused by the migraine. Regardless, Kelly made his best effort to offset it, walking heel to toe, slowly rolling his feet along the outside edge of his foot to cut down on the wood’s noisy reaction to his weight.

He passed by Embry’s room. She was at her mother’s. Habitually, he was drawn to open her door and peek in. There was something absurdly satisfying about seeing his daughter soundly asleep. He’d get no such gift this morning and continued his journey to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

Kelly ran the shower, letting steam fill the room before he stepped in. As the warm water rained down the back of his neck, he remained unmoved. Then he turned his head and opened his mouth. He filled, swished, and spat, then repeated several more times in an effort to clear the remnants of the taste left in his mouth.

After washing up, he felt a bit more alert but still sluggish. His only hope now was to get enough coffee to counteract the fatigue.

Today would be Halstead’s