Codes of Betrayal Read Free

on the Sobelman killing. Jesus, looka this. He’s correcting our grammar, for God’s sake. Hell with it—it’ll keep until next week.”
    Detective Johnson, a huge man with a florid complexion and a very small voice, looked at them and shook his head. “Well, looka the Bobbsey twins. How come you guys aren’t in court bookin’ all the bad guys? Ya fallin’ down on the job or what?”
    Eddie waved the report at him. “We been doing some research. You know, for our book. Very hush-hush, don’t ask, okay?”
    For three years, Johnson had claimed to be working on the next “big cop book,” and the best way to needle him was to say you were working on your book. He believed everyone.
    The team of Hoffman and Smith came into the squad office, dragging a frightened, bone-skinny woman by the arm.
    “Tried to pick my damn pocket, can you beat it? I’m on the subway; just as I get off, there’s this hand reaching …” He held up the thin hand. The lightweight sleeve of a torn coat slid down the woman’s arm, revealing needle tracks. “Sit here,” he instructed her. He leaned to Nick. “She’s in a helluva bad way. Four months’ pregnant. Gonna try to get her into detox.”
    Hoffman only looked like a monstrous uncaring bastard. He was really softhearted under certain circumstances. It was known that he had a drug addict son doing time in a rehab somewhere in Minnesota. He had taken it very hard; hadn’t been able to follow the edicts of the “tough love” group his wife insisted they join. Against all advice, he had hugged his kid and told him that he loved him and would love him forever. He didn’t let anyone know that he would take the kid back over and over again, no matter what.
    Hoffman poured a mug of hot coffee from a sticky pot and thrust it at the woman, who jumped. Not realizing how loud and threatening his voice sounded, he bellowed at her, “I’m gonna give ya this cuppa, now promise not to boff on me, okay?”
    Nick told him, “Hoff, she don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Look at her—you’re scaring the hell outta her.”
    Hoffman shrugged and backed off, then remembered something. “Hey, Nicholas, my man. You goin’ to that big seventy-fifth birthday party for your grandfather, right? Waddya gotta do, kiss the ring before you kiss his cheek?”
    “You’ll never know, Hoff.”
    A new member of the squad, a skinny Puerto Rican named Silvio but called Slick, listened in. He didn’t know if he resented the nickname or not. He walked over to Nick.
    “Hey, no kiddin’, O’Hara—your grandfather is that guy Ventura, the big mob guy?”
    Only certain guys are permitted to joke about someone’s family. Slick was not one of them.
    Nick stiffened and looked down at the smaller man. “Something you want to discuss with me about my family, Slick? ’Cause if there is, there’s a coupla things I wanna talk to you about your mother.”
    Eddie grabbed Nick by the arm and tugged him to the door, waving Slick off. He whispered to Nick, “Christ, Nickie, c’mon, don’t be mean. You know how those PRs are about their mothers.”
    As they walked down the stairs, Nick said loudly, “Sure, because they don’t know who their fathers are!”
    A furious voice called after them, “I heard that. I heard that.”
    There was laughter coming from the ready room, as the eight-to-four guys were being relieved by the four-to-one A.M. men.
    “C’mon, that’s Del White in there,” Nick said. They entered the room, anticipating. He was the squad’s storyteller.
    “Nick, my man, lemme tell y’all about what happened to me on my watch through the night. You notice I’m still here at what? Four P.M . Had to collar a guy, damned if I didn’t, just as I went off last night.”
    Detective Second Grade Delaware White’s skin glistened ebony pure. He was handsome, meticulous, a regular GQ dandy.
    “So I stop off at Healy’s for a quick one and walk into the middle of a real ongoing