Flynn's World Read Online Free PDF

live in a three-story Victorian house in Winthrop overlooking Boston Harbor.”
    “And just under all the main flight patterns into and out of Logan International Airport. Terrible roarings and crashings and boomings go on all day and all night. It’s a wonder my ears are still as astute as they are.”
    “We can find no record that your home is mortgaged to a local bank.”
    Flynn said nothing.
    “That’s unusual, for a police officer, don’t you think? You have five children. Four of them attend private school. Their annual tuition, combined, about consumes your annual income from the Boston Police Department.”
    “I run an old car.”
    “That’s another thing,” Grover expostulated. “He uses me like a personal chauffeur. An errand boy! In city-owned vehicles! He makes me pick him up at his house in the morning, bring him home at night, take his kids to that damned snotty Cartwright School they go to . . .”
    “Is it true you own a farm in Ireland, Flynn?”
    “The kids have told me so,” Grover asserted. “It’s called Locked Phooey or something. Typical!”
    “How do you afford all this, Flynn?”
    “Don’t forget his girlfriend,” Grover urged. “Mrs. Fleming. The Judge’s widow.”
    “Girlfriend!” Flynn said to Walsh. “I believe you know Dr. Sarah Fleming. A professor of criminology who consults with this department?”
    Grover said, “She rides a pink motorcycle.”
    Walsh hitched his desk chair. Again he thumbed Grover’s thesis. “Then there’s a complete record of your not exactly bringing people to justice. What is it the newspapers call you? ‘Reluctant’ Flynn? Cases where Dicky tells me you have more than enough evidence to charge a suspect with crime, bring the case to court, and, for some reason, you don’t? He’s documented many such cases.”
    “Sassie Fleming, for one,” Grover said. “She murdered her husband! She murdered over a hundred people! She’s rich! She was never charged!”
    “Is that so, Flynn?”
    “He never let me charge his damned sons for knocking me down on a Cambridge street, either!”
    “Grover,” Flynn said patiently. “Cambridge is outside our jurisdiction. Another city altogether. You’ve taught me that.”
    “What was all that about, Flynn?”
    “Grover misunderstood instructions,” Flynn said. “Sometimes the lad’s enthusiasm causes him to forget the object of our exercise.”
    “My name’s not Grover!” shouted Sergeant Richard T. Whelan. Now his face was very flushed. “It’s Dick!”
    “Ah, what’s wrong with my having a pet name for you, Grover? Somehow I can’t bring myself to call you a Dick.”
    “What is a Grover?” Walsh asked.
    “A creature which travels close to the ground, I think,” Flynn said. “Seldom looks either up or to all sides of himself. Myopic, whose little legs travel him faster than he can apprehend either directions or dangers.”
    “That’s another thing,” Grover said. “He’s always sayin’ things no one understands. We’re sick of it!”
    “Is a grover some kind of a mythical character, Frank?”
    “I wish.”
    Walsh squared himself to his desk. “I went to Boston Latin School.”
    “I’m sure the old place is proud of you.”
    “Well, Frank. I’m going to give you a choice. Resign.”
    “But, Captain, you don’t understand. I am resigned.”
    “Is that another one of your jokes?”
    “Not really.”
    “Or, while you are suspended from duty, Internal Affairs will do a thorough investigation of all affairs concerning ‘Inspector’ Francis Xavier Flynn. Such an investigation will probably take months. The way you spend money, you’ll probably have to get another job, or jobs, anyway. The first thing IA will require from you are your income tax filings and financial statements for the last seven years. Have you been in this country seven years?”
    “Yes and no.”
    “Having feelings for you as a fellow police officer, of however short a duration, feelings you do not