The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3) by Brian Shea (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📗

case that’s come through this department. I may not have been Homicide, but I know my way around an investigation.” He paused for effect and scanned the room. “The first order of business is case review. I'm going to be going through all of your active cases. If you have any cases that have hit a stalemate or need to be shifted over to Cold Case, let me know. I'm a numbers man and I want the cases to match what we're actively working on as an investigative unit."

Kelly blew out a long, slow exhale. He knew what case would be up on the chopping block first.

"Well, welcome to the show," Mainelli said. "You're in for a real treat with this crew." He laughed at his own joke.

Sutherland laughed too. It was the first time the man had broken into laughter in a long time, his mood obviously lightened at the news he'd been waiting for years to hear.

Halstead, on the other hand, did not smile. "I look forward to working with each and every one of you, and I also look forward to seeing the kind of case investigations you've put together under Sergeant Sutherland's supervision. I'm not here to change the way things work, I'm just here to make sure they continue to run smoothly."

With that, the group was dismissed. The trio went back to their cubicle stations.

Kelly pulled out Tomlin's file and set it on his desk on top of Lumpkin’s arrest paperwork. He wanted to go through it one more time, hoping he could find some piece he missed that was capable of keeping it alive.

17

The bar was abuzz. Conversations increased in volume and intensity with the purchase of each subsequent round. Finnegan's Folly overlooked the harbor and was within easy walking distance of where Jason Palmer’s body had been found.

The city now held different sentimental value for Kelly and the other members of his Homicide unit. For the commoner, the civilian, each bar or restaurant or landmark was just that, but not for Kelly. Much of his native Boston was now marred with the invisible scars of the crimes he had worked. The blood and grime that had been long since washed away left only memories, ones Kelly kept stored in his continually growing mental filing cabinet.

People were waiting in line for the tape to be cut and the scene to be cleared so that the bank's ATM could be used again. The death of an unknown person was nothing more than an inconvenience to the average person. Kelly had resigned himself long ago to the fact that everywhere he went, he walked among the dead. The thought of it didn't bother him. It was just the way things were.

Kelly watched the crowd of fellow cops with their mugs of beer or shots of whiskey. Their paycheck came from investigating tragedy, and those investigations paid for these drinks, a symbiotic relationship of sorts. One could not exist without the other. The job never stopped and neither did the drinks, an emotional salve for the trauma observed.

He'd heard more than one cop say, I wish a day would come when crime was ended and police were no longer needed. Looking around the bar at his cohorts, Kelly knew that was the furthest thing from the truth. The job was like a rare drug; its euphoric effect became its own driving force. Much like the junkies Kelly dealt with during his time in Narcotics, cops became addicted to the job, attaching their identity to the badge without regard for the world around them.

Maybe Kelly was overthinking it. He'd had more than his share of drinks tonight. Though normally a moderate drinker at best, Kelly lost count a couple rounds ago. That's the way it was at a retirement party. Somebody bought a round, somebody else followed. Beers and shots were shoved into hands and it was difficult, if not impossible, to push back against the rising tide of inebriation. And if Kelly were truly honest with himself, he needed this night. Needed to distance himself from the cases and unshackle the burden they bore on him. Needed to ignore the constant sense of responsibility he felt.

He was jostled from his thoughts as Jimmy Mainelli’s burly body shoved up alongside him at the bar. He was double fisting. Both mugs sloshed, overflowing and spilling onto the lacquered surface of the counter. Mainelli barely noticed as his sleeve soaked up the dark beer.

"Saint Michael," Mainelli slurred. "Down here from among high to mingle with the commoners."

If Kelly was feeling the buzz, then Mainelli was two sheets to the wind. His bloodshot eyes and slurred speech bore testament to that, but more so did the jadedness of his words.

Mainelli and Kelly got along fine enough, but there was definitely a difference in approaches when it came to handling the caseloads. It didn’t take long for Kelly to figure that out. As a new face in Homicide, he’d been given wiggle room by Mainelli. The senior detective, veteran of the force—in particular Homicide—had let Kelly run free pushing the paces of his cases, assuming, undoubtedly, that he would soon tire. Mainelli warned him the grind was endless, and to survive in a unit where the bodies continued to drop no matter how hard you worked or how many cases you closed, Kelly would need to find a more reserved approach. Mainelli hit his investigative stride years back and, in Kelly's opinion, was operating in neutral, coasting along, and dragging cases out that should be closed.

The friction came when Kelly's pace never changed. If anything, it increased. Nearing a year in the unit and still pushing as hard as he did when he first came in. It had always been that way for Kelly. And always would be.

Kelly was of the firm belief that if someone didn't like the way he worked, they could find someone else to partner with. He never openly pushed people away. He just did things his