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Sorry Now? (Stonewall Inn Mysteries) - Softcover

Buch 1 von 12: Paul Turner Mysteries

Zubro, Mark Richard

 
9780312082994: Sorry Now? (Stonewall Inn Mysteries)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0312082991 ISBN 13: 9780312082994
Verlag: St Martin's Press, 1992

Inhaltsangabe

While in Chicago, right-wing televangelist Bruce Mucklewrath is attacked and his daughter killed. Sensing a potential time bomb, and with Mucklewrath creating great pressure, the police brass assign the case to Detective Paul Turner whom they trust with sensitive matters. During their investigation, Turner and his partner discover that other right-wing bigots have been suffering odd attacks, and they begin to suspect a conspiracy of vengeance, perhaps even from the gay community. This is an uncomfortable thought for Turner, who is himself gay, but when Turner is attacked and his two sons threatened, he has to enlist the help of people in his close-knit neighborhood, as well as his contacts in the gay world, to find the solution in time.

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Sorry Now?
ONE
Paul Turner padded downstairs to his son Jeff's bedroom. Sunlight and birdcalls streamed in through the open window. The gauze curtains brushed against his hips as he stepped over his son's crutches. He paused, as he always did for a brief moment, to watch his son sleep. He noted the rise and fall of the thin chest, let his eyes rove over the shaggy hair. Neither Jeff nor his brother, Brian, believed in haircuts. Even shampooing their hair when they were little had been a major battle. He checked the leg braces on the floor and then ran his eyes over the catheterization equipment on the nightstand. Everything in place. Jeff stirred and turned on his stomach, the covers slipping down to reveal the years-old scar on his back. Paul called Jeff's name and touched his shoulder. Only another week of school before Jeff could sleep late. Paul shook the shoulder gently. Jeff's ability to sleep through even the worse noise still astounded his father. Jeff opened an eye and his dad left; hearing the shower start on the second floor, he knew Brian was up.
Paul returned upstairs to his own room to finish dressing and continue his morning routine. Fifteen minutes later, after carefully knotting his tie, he went to the safe in the closet andunlocked it. He took out his gun, checked it carefully, strapped on his holster, and grabbed his wallet with the star in it.
Jeff sat at the kitchen table reading a library book. Brian, hair still damp, stood at the stove. He poured beaten eggs into the pan and sprinkled cut-up spinach onto them. He asked, "There's a party at David's tonight. I'll be out late. Okay?"
Paul took the orange juice out of the refrigerator and placed it on the table. He eyed his sixteen-year-old son critically. "Who's supervising the party? Remember you have to pick up your brother by midnight. I'll be late."
"Dad! Nobody's going to do drugs or drink. We're not going to have an orgy on the carpet!"
"What's an orgy?" Jeff asked.
"When people enjoy themselves more than they imagine," his father answered the ten-year-old. He turned back to Brian. "Are David's parents going to be home?"
His son grinned at him, "I think they're the ones supplying the condoms."
"I know what a condom is," Jeff said. "I saw it on TV."
"As long as your bother knows, is what's important," Paul said.
Paul squeezed behind Jeff's chair to get to the drawer with the utensils. He found the silverware, placed it on the table, and grabbed a coffee cup. The kitchen sat at the back of the house with a window overlooking the cluttered back porch and small urban back yard.
Brian's voice squeaked as he began to speak. "I promise to clean the basement and the attic the first day of vacation."
"You have to clean them anyway. You usually don't resort to bribery until after you've whined for ten minutes. You in a rush?"
"My whine quotient got used up talking to Coach yesterday. He expects us to do a full workout in this heat, besides regular practice."
"Just remember to drink lots of fluids and you should be okay," Turner said.
Paul and his sons ate breakfast together every weekday. Theyrose a half hour early to share at least the one meal together, to talk, compare schedules, settle family squabbles. Paul Turner's workday started at eight thirty, and as much as he tried to stick to a set schedule, the amount of overtime required of a detective in Area Ten of the Chicago Police Department made this almost impossible. In spring Brian's baseball practice kept him out until six most nights. Jeff's schedule varied because of his physical therapy. Paul wanted them together at least once a day for a meal one of them cooked. They each took a week and rotated assignments. One cooked, one set the table, one cleaned up. Jeff's meals were, understandably, simple. The kitchen had special chairs, hooks, and pulleys to aid Jeff, although Turner stood ready to help and often assisted Jeff if things got complicated.
 
 
On the car radio on the way to work, the announcer gave the temperature as eighty-one degrees. The National Weather Service predicted another record high temperature in Chicago, with little chance of a break in the early-June heat wave.
As usual, the detectives in Area Ten mumbled their way through Friday-morning roll call. The structure they sweated in was south of the River City complex on Wells Street, in a building as old and crumbling as River City was new and gleaming. Fifteen years ago the department had purchased a four-story warehouse scheduled for demolition, and decreed it would be the new Area Ten headquarters. To this day rehabbers occasionally put in appearances. In fits and starts the building had changed from an empty hulking wreck to a people-filled hulking wreck. The best that could be said about it was that the heat usually worked in winter. The worst was that it had absolutely no air conditioning.
Sergeant Felix Specter had been through roll call with some of them over a thousand times. They rested their back ends on folding chairs. The bulletin board hung to the left of the chalkboard in front of the room. Messages crammed the entire surface. Turner glanced over the items on the board: the usualannouncements of retirement parties and a few notes from the Fraternal Order of Police, the cop union in Chicago. Next to the bulletin board hung the chart of acceptable hair lengths in the department.
Later in the squad room, Paul joined his partner, Buck Fenwick, at the coffee machine. Buck was on another diet. They'd been partners five years and Buck had gained an average of eight pounds per year.
"Double and triple fuck," Buck swore as he shook the last grains of sugar from a mangled box.
Turner said, "I thought you couldn't have sugar on the new diet."
"I get ten grains a cup." He shook the box again.
Ten years ago the Chicago Police Department created Area Ten to combat the rising wave of crime along Chicago's lake front. It ran from Fullerton Avenue on the north to Fifty-fifth Street on the south, and from Lake Michigan west to Halsted Street.
Turner took his black coffee, strolled to his desk, and began sorting through files, active cases to be pursued today, leftover paperwork from an ax murder in Grant Park. From the start Paul had been sure it was the deranged father-in-law who'd done it. They had caught the guy two nights earlier trying to retrieve the ax from the bottom of Buckingham Fountain. Unfortunately for him the police had found the ax already and had set up watchers in case he returned.
Buck Fenwick arrived at his desk, which was front-to-front with Turner's, and threw himself into his chair. Turner heard the telltale squeaks of protest that told him the chair had about another week and a half before Fenwick's bulk would crush it to the floor. Fenwick perched the cup on a stack of files, as he always did. Coffee sloshed out, as it always did. Turner handed him a napkin, as he usually did. "Double fuck," Fenwick swore, mopping it up.
Turner liked being partnered with Fenwick. They could hardly have been more different. Turner's dark haired five feet eleven inches contrasted with the blond bulk of his rapidlybalding friend. Fenwick didn't sweat the small stuff. Turner appreciated his casualness.
Sergeant Specter bustled into the squad room, his white shirtsleeves already rolled up past the elbow, revealing the angry red flaking that started with the first seriously humid days of the Chicago summer. No doctor had been able to cure it and neither mounds of salve nor special-ordered ointments seemed able to control it. He slapped a message on Turner's desk.
"Oak Street Beach, and you better...

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Verlag
St Martin's Press
Erscheinungsdatum
1992
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0312082991
ISBN 13 
9780312082994
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
179
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
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