Shadow of Death Read Free

powers.”
    â€œYou’re in favor of this, then?”
    â€œYes, Brady, I guess I am.”
    â€œYou want me to hire a PI to tail Albert?”
    â€œIt’s necessary.”
    â€œI’d like to talk with you about it.”
    â€œYou mean, talk me out of it?”
    â€œNo,” I said, “that’s not what I meant.”
    â€œIt’s no big deal, Brady,” said Ellen. “Women hire people to check up on their husbands all the time.”
    â€œIt’s always a big deal.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “I suppose you’re right.” She hesitated. “I can’t talk now. I’m taping some TV spots in half an hour. How about lunch?”
    â€œCan you break away?”
    â€œActually, I’d love to. Just you and me. No speechifying, no interviewing, no worrying about my makeup.” She hesitated. “What about that place you always go to? Skeeter’s?”
    I laughed. “Skeeter’s is a sports bar, Ellen.”
    â€œI like sports. Especially the Red Sox. Anyway, I hear Skeeter’s has terrific cheeseburgers.”
    Cheeseburgers and baseball. My kind of senator. “Skeeter’s it shall be,” I said.
    â€œWonderful,” she said. “I’ll be there at noon.”
    Â 
    Â 
    I had no court appearances or client appointments scheduled for the day, so I called Julie, my secretary, and told her I’d
be working at home. Julie wasn’t happy about my increasingly slothful attitude to my law practice, billable hours, as she kept reminding me, being our lifeblood, but I assured her I’d keep track of all billable phone calls and work hard on the briefcase she’s filled with paperwork and sent home with me the previous afternoon. She hemmed and hawed and then said, well, Megan, her daughter, did have a soccer game after school …
    Quid pro quo. The lawyer’s creed. I took the day off, my secretary got to leave the office a few hours early. A classic plea bargain.
    I spent the morning dutifully catching up on my paperwork and making phone calls, and a little after eleven-thirty I walked over to Skeeter’s, which was hidden at the end of an alley in the financial district. Ellen had made a shrewd choice. Skeeter’s was always pretty quiet during lunchtime, and the State Street regulars who went there for cheeseburgers and beer cared more about sports than politics. They might recognize Ellen—Jimmy D’Ambrosio made sure her face was on the news most nights—but they wouldn’t bother her.
    If Nomar Garciaparra or Antoine Walker walked in, that might be another story.
    I waited at the end of the alley, and on the dot of noon a black Ford Explorer stopped by the curb and Ellen got out. She was wearing big round sunglasses and a pale blue business suit. I was, as always, surprised by how small she was, even in heels. On TV she appeared to be a big, sturdy woman. She’d always had that solid presence about her. But in person, she was almost petite.
    I stepped forward and stuck out my elbow. She smiled and hooked her arm through mine, and we went in.

    Each of the four big-screen television sets behind the bar was tuned to a different channel. You had your choice of European soccer, women’s golf, an old Sugar Ray Leonard boxing match, or the 1973 Super Bowl. All the sets were muted. There were a dozen or so patrons sitting at the bar with their backs to the door, about an equal mix of men and women, all in business suits. They were talking quietly among themselves, and they didn’t even turn around when Ellen and I stepped inside.
    When he saw us, Skeeter looked up from behind the bar and smiled. I arched my eyebrows and pointed at an empty booth toward the rear, and he waved his hand and nodded.
    Ellen sat with her back to the room. I slid in across from her.
    She pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, put her forearms on the table, and leaned toward me. “This is