Ken Bruen - The Emerald Lie

Pearson smiled, said,

“Well, Superintendent, it’s like this: you can opt for the small fiasco or go large when I add police brutality to the sheet.”

Clancy looked as though he might wallop him, then asked,

“I know you?”

Pearson gave a well-fed, well-rehearsed chuckle, then,

“Not yet but by Christ you will.”

Clancy thought,

“Yeah, a Prod.”

I watched Emily drive out of the gated building. She was driving an Aston Martin. She seemed to have unlimited access to cars, like everything else.

I got across the road before the gate clanged shut, and getting into the main block took a good five minutes. I had a fine-tuned set of burglar keys given to me by a guy who now sat on the new water board. Still picking people’s pockets but with sanction, if not approval. The door to her apartment gave me a moment of pause. Would she booby-trap?

Oh, yeah.

So I was extremely careful, my heart hammering.

Finally the door opened and I stepped inside. An OCD wet dream. Spotless and everything in white: walls, sofas, coffee table. A lingering aroma of weed and patchouli. Not unpleasant.

There was an open-plan sitting room leading to a kitchen and bedroom. On the main wall was a large framed photo of a man with his collar turned up, heading into a dark alley. It was black-and-white and, dare I say, arresting.

“Fuck,”

I said,

As

I realized it was me.

Jesus.

Shaking my head, I headed for the kitchen, a solid steel fridge, opened to reveal a full-stocked range of supplies. Six-pack of Shiner Bock; had me one of those cold babes. Still hadn’t decided if I wanted her to know she’d been invaded. On the kitchen table was this:

A solid gold Colt.45, fully loaded, ready to rock. It was a beautiful piece. Yeah, I’d confiscate it. Slid it into the waistband of my jeans. Felt better already. If she came home suddenly, I could simply shoot her.

A small shelf had some books, titles were

All My Puny Sorrows.

Probably among the finest novels ever on suicide and indeed family fuckup.

Then,

David Foster Wallace essays.

And

Anne Sexton poems.

Why was that not a surprise?

I finished the beer, thought,

“Go another?”

Yeah, why not?

Pulling drawers open at random, I found a faded photo, four men, one I recognized as Emily’s murderous father and, beside him, a man whose head was circled in red, and a red label above proclaiming/asking?

“The Grammarian?”

The other two I knew from a high-profile case where they had been convicted of assaulting young girls. I said,

“Fucking motley crew.”

In her closet I found a metal chest, opened to see stacks of banded cash, muttered,

“Holy shit.”

Tempted to grab a wedge but, hey, taking the gun, that was simply disarming her. But taking money — that was outright stealing. Put a pack in my jacket, hundreds of euros. Moved across the room and opened a closet and, oh, fuck

Reams and reams of baby clothes. I shut that quick, my heart scalded. Said,

“I am not going to think about that, no fucking way, I didn’t see it.”

I moved to the door, looked back at her life, barren, cold, empty, and like, I had something better?

That evening I was sitting in Garavan’s, pint and chaser in play, feeling tired. I’d taken the pup for a long hike and he was now home, knackered. I was in the snug in the hope of no one bothering me. I had about as much chat in me as the government had credibility.

A woman came in, stood before me, in that indeterminate age group of forty-fifty. Well groomed, long black coiffed hair, and a face that was striking more than pretty. Her clothes quietly whispered,

“Money and, yeah, class.”

I don’t know if God donates class but I was pretty sure that the devil handed out style. Whatever she was selling, I didn’t want it. I raised my glass, conveying,

“Take it elsewhere, lady.”

She sat. I mean, fuck it, just sat. Said,

“You are Jack Taylor.”

How many times I’d begun a case with just those words and never, fuck never, did it end well. I looked her right in the face, measured,

“I don’t care whether your husband/dog is missing or whatever, your son/daughter/... you hear me? I can’t help you.”

She was unfazed, just leveled those lovely sad eyes on me, said,

“It’s my nephew, Parker Wilson.”

Name rang a bell but I couldn’t be bothered figuring it, said,

“Please go away. Find somebody who gives a rat’s arse.”

She leaned into me, said,

“They are calling him the Grammarian.”

Whoa.

Had to do a whole double take, then,

“Well, lady, he is fucked, signed, sealed, and delivered. Get him a good lawyer, cop for insanity.”

She sat back, took me in with a full eye search, and nothing warm was there. She said,

“You have a rep for finding information that the Guards can’t.”

I shrugged, said,

“You need a miracle, I don’t do miraculous.”

She put a fat envelope on the counter, said,

“I believe you can be... bought.”

Was I outraged?

Indignant.

Nope.

I could be bought — and cheaply.

I asked,

“What is it you want?”

As I asked, the strangest feeling hit me. I began to feel a tingle all along my spine, as if someone trod heavily on my grave, and fuck, barely recognized the feeling, it had been so long, so dormant.

Attraction.

Ah, shite, I needed that like a wallop to the head. My mind muttering,

“No way, no fucking way, not going through all the shit again.”

Even as my treacherous heart began to sing. And I swear, she saw it, in that uncanny way that women have. A tiny smile at the corner of the mouth as she sussed it.

She said,

“My name is Sarah, Sarah Compton, and I want you to prove that Park is innocent.”

Piece of cake.

All biz, I asked,

“Where is he now?”

She looked at her watch, slim Rolex, said,

“Just about making bail.”

As Park was being released, Sergeant Ridge was standing beside him, whispered,

“Enjoy the brief outing. I’ll have your arse back in here so quick...”

He looked at her like a total stranger, then murmured,

“Mind your language.”

Sarah had a car arranged and before the press could engulf him she had him in the back and sped away with cameras flashing at its taillights. Park’s mind was beginning to settle but words and letters still created a small rainbow at the edge of his vision. He said to Sarah, vague distress lining his tone,

“All the letters are lowercase.”

She looked to see if the driver had heard, then said,

“We’re going to bring you to my house. It’s peaceful there.”

He was quiet for a bit, then asked,

“Do you have a Fowler’s Modern English Usage there?”

She thought,

“Uh-oh.”

Said,

“Park, best if you concentrate on getting rest for now.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then said,

“Lowercase implies capital catastrophe is imminent.”

Sarah thought,

“Mad as a hatter.”

But family.