88 Killer Read Free

‘Can’t you cut that out?’ he said.
    Dylan looked up, his unshaven face pockmarked. ‘The champ feeling a little tetchy tonight?’
    ‘Just trying to focus here,’ said Harper. He exhaled slowly. Ahead of him, a boxer in red satins stared out from a torn poster, his shining gloves held high, his body tense and ready. Harper tapped his booted feet on the floor. ‘Let’s just get this done.’
    Three years ago, Harper had made NYPD Cruiserweight Champion. He’d beaten an opponent who was bigger and heavier. Harper had had reserves that night, and he’d wanted it bad. Now he didn’t know what he was doing here. Rusty and tired even before he stepped into the ring. Maybe that was the problem – three years of rust was making his muscles feel dull and heavy.
    From somewhere beyond the small room, both men heard another roar echoing down the corridor. Harper’s muscles twitched. He imagined the referee lifting the winner’s arm, the loser standing beaten. Avoiding failure used to be Harper’s main motivation. It’d been three months since the end of his last big case. A tough case. And three months since he’d seen Denise Levene. And that hurt too.
    Guilt still kept him from sleeping. He’d brought Levene on to the case – she’d impressed him, she was smart and eager. She knew things about criminal behavior that no one else seemed to understand. They’d worked well together. Then it all went wrong. The killer targeted Denise Levene and kept her for two terrible days. For three months since, Harper had been unable to put the monster to rest inside his own head and Denise Levene wouldn’t speak to him or see him. And without forgiveness you can’t go forward, you can only keep punishing yourself.
    Out at ringside, the first bout was cleared. The ring was mopped of sweat and blood as more cops poured in from the street for the main event. They were there to see the ex-champ Harper take on the new boy Castiglione. Harper had retired as champ, had never been beaten and word was, he wanted his title back. People of all ages, from the old vets to the fresh-faced rookies, began opening beers and jostling for space on the battered wooden benches.
    In the locker room, Harper thought about the weeks of preparation and training. He’d pushed himself hard, working long shifts at North Manhattan Homicide and then carrying on with lengthy sessions at the gym.
    Cops weren’t supposed to be affected by what happened to them, they were supposed to move on to the next case, the next body. The reality was different. The cops Harper knew hid their weaknesses. The hardening of the heart was the price you paid for being in the game, but every cop knew that underneath, every damn thing stuck in deep and clawed away at you. Awake, you could control your fears, but asleep, there was nothing at all between you and the abyss.
    Harper stood up, his gloves on and laced. He was in good physical shape – six two with broad shoulders and toned muscles. His age showed only in the gray flecks in his hair.
    Pushing his mouth guard in, he gritted his teeth and let himself be led out of the room into the darkness beyond. They walked slowly up the narrow corridor as the noise of the crowd grew louder and louder, the heavy beat of stamping feet rising to meet them.
    The door to the gym opened up, the noise doubled in a moment and hit them like a wave. There was no fancy music, no fancy name. Just Tom Harper who had demons to face and had decided he’d try to face them in the place he knew he could fight best. The ring.
    He looked across at Marco Castiglione pacing his territory. He was a short, bullish patrol cop with a mean and hungry look in his eye, who was out to prove himself. Once upon a time, Harper had been that guy.
    As Harper walked towards the ring, the cops started shouting his name, rising from their seats and patting his back as he passed. He pushed the top rope high and stepped through on to the canvas, standing opposite the