A Christmas Killing Read Free

you?”
    “This your car?” Byrne asked.
    Farren looked at the vehicle, as if it might not be his. The detectives had already run the plates. It wasn’t really a question.
    “It’s mine. Is there some kind of problem?”
    “Only that I don’t have one just like it,” Byrne said. He pointed at the right front fender of the Malibu. “Looks like you had a bender.”
    “Philly drivers and four-way stops,” Farren said. “What can I say? It happens.”
    “Did you report it?”
    Farren smiled. Two missing teeth, two gold. “Now, what good would that have done?”
    Byrne shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it would’ve helped with the insurance.”
    An empty laugh. “I own a body shop. I get a price.” He slowly reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card. Heavenly Body on Wharton Street. He handed it to Byrne. Byrne took it.
    “Thanks,” Byrne said. “Can you tell us where you were tonight?”
    “What time?”
    “Around eight o’clock.”
    “Tonight?”
    “This very one.”
    Farren waved a hand at the bar, but did not take his eyes from Byrne’s.
    “I was here,” he said. “I’ve been here all night.”
    “Then why ask what time? All night is all night.”
    Farren said nothing.
    “Do you know a woman named Miranda Sanchez?” Byrne asked.
    “I know a lot of women.”
    “Are any of them named Miranda Sanchez?”
    Farren feigned thought. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
    “What about Misty? Know any women named Misty?”
    “No, but I like that name better.”
    Byrne once more pointed at the Malibu. “Have you had this in for service today?”
    “Today?”
    “I can speak louder if you want me to,” Byrne said. He did. “Yes. Today.”
    Farren didn’t see the humor in this. “No.”
    Byrne walked around to the back of the Malibu. The thin line of light amber liquid led around the corner, on the same side of the street as the bodega, a half block away.
    Byrne crouched down, touched a finger to the fluid, smelled it. He returned to where Farren stood. But not before looking into the passenger side of the car. There was blood on the front seat. It looked almost black in the sodium street light.
    Byrne held out his two fingers. “Smells like brake fluid.”
    Farren shifted his weight. “Had to put fluid in tonight,” he said. “That a crime?”
    “The only crime is what they charge for it in a food market.”
    No response.
    “Where’s the empty can?” Byrne asked.
    “I threw it out.”
    “Where?”
    Before Farren could answer, Byrne sensed movement to his right. There, coming up the sidewalk, fewer then twenty feet away, was Patrick’s brother, Danny. Behind him walked two boys, both about ten years old.
    Danny Farren, a few years older than Patrick, wore a long black leather coat, a black knit watch cap. He had his right hand in his coat pocket. When he rounded the corner he made eye contact with his brother, and knew.
    If Patrick Farren was the family pit bull, Danny was the Rottweiler. He had done ten years in Rockview for manslaughter.
    Byrne unbuttoned his coat. Frank Sheehan did the same. Sheehan bladed his body toward Patrick; Byrne, toward Danny.
    “Now, about that brake fluid can,” Byrne said.
    Patrick snapped his fingers. “I remember now. I threw it out the window.”
    “Where?” Byrne asked. “It’ll still be there.”
    “Can’t recall.” Farren took a step backward, toward the middle of the street. Byrne watched his hands. He hadn’t made his move. Yet.
    Byrne put away his notebook. He needed both hands free.
    “Here’s what happened,” Byrne said. “You know Miranda Sanchez. You’ve seen her before. In fact, I have an eyewitness who can put her in your bar on more than one occasion. What happened tonight was, you pulled over on Christian a few hours ago, and sent Miranda into that bodega to buy some brake fluid. You put the fluid in your car, and then Miranda said the wrong thing, or looked at you the wrong way, or dropped your last rock in the