Cherry Bomb

Начало книги

Pour into a rocks glass.

Garnish with cherry.

AT MY FIANCÉ’S FUNERAL I got a phone call from the woman who killed him.

“I checked the Weather Channel.” Her tone was conversational, cheery. “It’s raining in Chicago. That’s appropriate, don’t you think? Funerals on sunny days seem so wrong.”

The pastor hit the switch, and the mechanical winch lowered Latham’s casket into the ground on black canvas straps. Slow, like it was sinking into a swamp. The rain beaded up on the lacquered oak lid and I had an irrational urge to find a towel, wipe it dry. Latham didn’t deserve to spend eternity wet.

“I’m coming after you,” I whispered into the phone.

“That’s what he said. Before I shot him. He said you’d come after me. Latham had faith in you until the very end, Jack. Like a puppy dog. Poor guy. Murdered, just for loving the wrong woman.”

My partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, had been staring at me since the phone rang. Herb’s black suit was purchased back when he weighed less, the tightness making his large stomach seem even larger. His free hand-the one that wasn’t holding the crutch-reached up and touched my shoulder.

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