The audience included Mrs. Keating, Mrs. Bane’s best friend/nemesis, depending on what was going on. One minute they’d be thick as thieves, laughing and cackling over something. The next, we were getting called out to break up one of their fights.
We were listening to her explain about the sock which had been taken as evidence because it wasn’t the type her husband wore—he liked the thin ones, not the “weird sporty ones” according to her—when Mrs. Keating sighed loudly, interrupting what she was saying.
“Why don’t you just say it out loud? If you think we don’t know what happened, you’ve got another think coming.”
Mrs. Bane’s head moved surprisingly quickly for someone her age as she spun to glare at the other woman. “It’s thing. You’ve got another thing coming.”
Oh fuck, here were we go again.
“Darlin’, you can correct my English as much as you want, it won’t fix your situation. Now, what’d be way more better would be if you just came out and said whatever’s making you fidget so much.”
“Way more better? Holy Moses, woman, this is like last night when you said tapioca was ‘much worser’ than Jello.”
Both me and Carter sighed and got up to get some more coffee, leaving the women to battle it out for a minute, and knowing they wouldn’t stop until they did. We’d tried it just after we’d arrived, and it’d ended up with them slinging barbs every thirty seconds at each other.
Just as I was adding creamer to mine, Mrs. Keating said something that changed the whole investigation.
“Good grief, I’d have drug you through the streets if I was one of these gentlemen by now—”
“It’s dragged. Why in heaven’s name would you say—”
Ignoring the correction, Mrs. Keating continued with the information that opened the case up completely. “Why don’t you just come out and tell him you were boinking the pastor?”
Mrs. Bane sucked in an audible breath and flinched.
“And, just so you know, either your husband bought a pack of them socks to slap the ham into because you weren’t putting out, or you drug him out to the middle of nowhere and whacked him for the affair he was having with the head of the church choir.”
By the end of it, the other residents were leaning forward, munching on popcorn that’d appeared out of nowhere, with staff members leaning over their shoulders periodically to get a handful for themselves.
Then, shocking us all, Mrs. Keating shifted so she could put her arm around the other woman’s shoulders.
“The truth sets us all free, darlin’. You been carrying this on your shoulders for too long.”
Wiping at a tear that’d fallen, Mrs. Bane said shakily, “You’ve not you.”
Mrs. Keating’s eyes narrowed. “Plus, you’re close to knocking on death’s door, so you probably need to clean your sin bucket of all the lies in it before you die next week.”
The rare moment of harmony between them was over.
But our investigation had just become that bit more promising.
Chapter Seven
Alex
Five days later…
It was Monday again. Why did that keep happening?
Every day of the week from Monday to Friday dragged, and because I worked alternate Saturdays, I didn’t always have the weekend to chill and let loose.
So, every other Sunday, by the time I woke up, I only had a handful of hours to switch off and get all of the shit I hadn’t been able to do done, before it was Monday again.
And here we were.
This Monday was a damn sight worse than most, though, because the callout the S.W.A.T. team had attended last week had led to the death of one of Palmerstown’s officers. So today, we were showing our respects to the fallen officer by driving with his funeral procession with our lights on.
I’d attended quite a few of these for my brothers in blue, and they made me feel sick.
Not every law enforcement officer was an angel, not every official was an angel, not every civilian was an angel, but the passing of a life was final. Any karma or punishment they were due was gone. Anything good the person would have done in the future was now impossible. The Christmases they’d have with their friends, families, and kids would never happen, and the photos of birthdays and celebrations were the only things left.
Dying with questions over what you may have done, accusations against you, and suspicions you were on the wrong side would be one of the worst things to happen for me. And that’s what we were involved in now.
Damien Parks was one of those people. He’d been caught in an active hostage situation when he’d knocked on a door after a neighbor had called in a suspected domestic violence dispute.
The wife had answered the door and shot him in the leg, nicking his femoral artery. Damien had managed to crawl away while she continued firing at him until he was behind his vehicle, but he’d died en route to the hospital.