Alone by Lisa Gardner Page A

Bobby said with some surprise. “You're right.”
    So Bobby had a beer. First from Walt, who had to congratulate him on a job well done.
    “I heard it straight from the horse's mouth—Lieutenant Jachrimo himself. You did what you had to do. And through glass no less. Shit, Bobby, that's some serious shooting.”
    Then Donny, also BPD, wanted in on the glory. He refreshed Bobby's drink and contributed his own two cents.
    “Just goes to show, money doesn't buy happiness. Walt, how many times have we been out to that place? Three, four, five? We're just sorry we missed the party.”
    It occurred to Bobby for the first time that both Walt and Donny were also part of Boston's SWAT. “How'd it play in Revere?” he asked.
    “Same old, same old,” Donny said. “Guy shot up the roof of his own house. Drank a six-pack. Shot up his house some more, and then, just when the LT was getting really pissed off at the lack of progress, passed out cold. We went in and wrapped him up tight while he snored. Kind of boring really. We didn't even get to yell.”
    “But you've been to Back Bay?”
    “Sure, Jimmy and his lady liked to spark the fireworks. He'd get drunk, she'd get mad, and off they'd go.”
    “He beat her?”
    Donny shrugged. “We never saw and she never said. They're not the ones who called it in anyway. It was always the neighbors who complained.”
    “Didn't like fighting in their neighborhood?”
    “Jimmy liked to throw things,” Walt said. “Once he hurled a chair off the balcony and onto his neighbor's Volvo. The neighbors really didn't like that.”
    “When you were called out, what'd you do?”
    “Not much. Couple of uniforms would go by, talk to the happy couple. I caught the call once. Jimmy apologized and, being of a generous sort, offered me a beer. The wife never said much of anything. Cold fish, if you ask me, though maybe if you're married to a guy like Jimmy, you learn to keep your mouth shut.”
    “He was violent?”
    “Time I was there, I saw a hole punched through the wall,” Walt said. “Wife didn't say anything, but it looked to me the exact same size as a man's fist.”
    “And the kid?”
    “Never saw him. I think they had a nanny. Probably better for the kid.”
    Bobby's second beer was getting low. Donny flagged Gary down for a refill and Bobby didn't complain. “You'd think a judge's son would know better,” he said tersely.
    Walt shrugged. “Way I hear it, Jimmy gets in a little trouble and the judge makes a little call, and it all goes away. If only we were all so lucky.”
    “Didn't go away this time,” Bobby said sharply.
    “Nope. Fine piece of shooting, Bobby. Honestly, if it wasn't for you, that wife and kid would probably be dead right now. That was some really serious shit.”
    More guys were coming up. Someone clapped him on the back. Someone else bought him another beer. Bobby could no longer feel the rim of the glass coming to his lips. He was aware of sliding a little, disappearing into a vortex inside the loud, overheated bar. But at the same time, he was hyperaware—of the guys who didn't come up to him, of the eyes that peered at him from across the room, of the way some people looked over, saw his face, then quickly shook their heads.
    And now he noticed something he hadn't before: the way both Walt and Donny regarded him. With respect, yeah, and awe, maybe, but also with genuine pity. 'Cause he was a cop who'd killed a man. And at the end of the day, it probably didn't matter what the DA's office finally ruled or what the department issued as its official finding. They were living in the media age, and in the media age, cops didn't get to fire their weapons. Cops were honored if they got themselves killed in the line of duty, but they were never supposed to draw their guns, not even in self-defense.
    Another beer arrived. Bobby picked up the glass. He was well on his way tobeing completely, shit-faced drunk, when his LT found him and gave him the news.
     
    J