Southside (9781608090563) Read Online Free PDF

surprised, no, nah I was euphorically stunned when, fifteen minutes later, she returned with coffee and a lone croissant from the Dean & DeLuca just down Highway 29.
    That night we went to Bouchon, little bistro sister to the French Laundry in the wine burg of Yountville. We kissed at the dinner table like young lovers. I knew this would not be just one weekend and, in all my life, I’ve never been happier. During dessert, we struck up a conversation with an elderly couple at the next table. After about fifteen minutes of banter, the lady at the table asked a question that I’d fondly repeat dozens of times over the years. “How do a famous chef and a crime reporter get together?”
    Five years after that, we’re still together. I like to sing her praises to people and I love to end by saying, “There’s only one thing that makes me suspicious about her. Have you ever met her boyfriend?”
    I thought of that question as I listened to Francesca’s opening phone salvo. “Small wonder people don’t believe you when you tell them I’m your girlfriend.”
    â€œAren’t you going to ask how I am?”
    There was silence for several seconds. I took that as a beautiful sign. Francesca wasn’t much for a breaking voice. Then she said, “You know, I hope they do say I’m your girlfriend when they show you on the news tonight.”
    That made me silent for several of my own seconds. “I hope they do too.”

CHAPTER 5
    In a change of the natural order, detectives—Sal LaBarbera and Johnny Hart—had taken to interviewing reporters.
    LaBarbera and Hart were not in the Robbery-Homicide Division, which handles high-profile cases. They were from Southeast Division, aka 108th Street. Captain Tatreau wanted them because they were homicide detectives who knew Lyons well and covered the same unruly beat he did.
    LaBarbera was New York street-smart and Hollywood leading-man handsome, six foot even, well built, full head of black hair, with a Bronx accent that came on hard when he needed to be tough or when he was joking. A smart dresser, decked out in a black Ralph Lauren blazer and gray slacks, oxblood Cole Haans.
    Hart was six three, a motocross-racing, snowboarding, black-belted blond bachelor who was heading for a life of California dreaming until his nephew was killed by a stray bullet in Gardena. So he entered law enforcement, sheriff’s first, then LAPD. Simple as that. He found that walking an alley in Watts looking for a sniper was a bigger thrill than pulling a hole shot at Glen Helen motocross track or skiing the west face of KT-22 in Squaw Valley.
    They set up shop on editor’s row in California editor Harriet Tinder’s mid-size office. Before they began to interview other reporters, the detectives scanned Lyons’s nearby desk. They noted the books on the top shelf. There were the usual suspects: the tattered
Webster’s Dictionary
, a new-looking
Roget’s Thesaurus
, a never-opened
Times
stylebook, several
Best Newspaper Writing
annuals and Miles Corwin’sseminal
The Killing Season
about a summer with homicide detectives from LAPD’s South Bureau.
    The first reporter they interviewed was Greg Mahtesian, whose father was Mike’s mom’s brother. Greg was a rock-solid reporter who often broke major news with his strong FBI contacts. Since September 11, he had been the paper’s go-to guy for the Feds.
    â€œGreg, Johnny, and I both know Mike and we think he’s a classic guy,” said LaBarbera. “He’s a guy that I trust, and that’s about as high as a compliment a detective can give a reporter.” Sal reached out to pat Greg on the shoulder.
    â€œAppreciate that,” Greg said.
    â€œYour cousin is either one tough SOB or crazy,” Hart chimed in. “Maybe both. He’d go places at night alone and unarmed that I’d only go with a partner and backup. Guy like that, though,