Temporary Sanity Read Online Free PDF Page B

would be safer on the streets.
    “I don’t know where she is,” I tell the Chief. “But I’ll find her, and she can stay with me. No need to involve the Service.”
    “You a relative?” the Chief asks, not looking at me.
    “Yes. A second cousin.”
    The Chief snorts at his paperwork. “Sure you are. And my cousin’s the Queen of England.” But he balls up the Department of Social Services referral form and tosses it into the wastebasket. He and the uniform leave the X-ray suite without another word.
    I’m relieved and grateful. It’s good to know that on some issues, at least, Chief Tommy Fitzpatrick and I are still on the same side.

Chapter 8
    Defense attorneys don’t show up at crime scenes. They’re not welcome. Now that I’ve crossed the aisle, I’m not expected to appear at the site of Howard Davis’s murder. Police officers and prosecutors enjoy exclusive control over every newly discovered suspicious death. It’s one of the perks of working for the Commonwealth.
    Old habits die hard, though.
    During my years as an assistant district attorney, I attended dozens of crime scenes. Almost always, important facts can be gleaned from the physical details of the site-the position of the body or the location of the weapon. Sometimes, the significance of what’s there, or not there, isn’t apparent until months later, when the evidence is being pieced together for trial. Once the scene is dismantled and sanitized, much of that information is gone for good.
    I figure it’s worth a shot. I leave Maggie Baker at the office with Harry and the Kydd and drive the short distance to Bayview Road. Sergeants Terry and Reid are on duty, stationed outside Sonia Baker’s modest cottage as if it houses the crown jewels. Even through the winter darkness, I see the two men exchange nervous glances when they recognize my pale blue Thunderbird.
    Not all cops are the good guys they’re cracked up to be, but these two are. I’ve known them both for years, and I can feel their anxiety levels rising as I approach. They’re used to seeing me at crime scenes. But they know I wear a different hat now; they didn’t expect to see me at this one. And they’re not quite sure how to get rid of me.
    Sergeant Terry must have drawn the short straw. He steps out to the small, snow-covered lawn as I slam the car door and cross the road.
    “Counselor,” he calls, his breath leaving a single white cloud in the air, “how goes it?”
    “Can’t complain,” I tell him, though it occurs to me I could do so at length, given the right opportunity.
    “How’s the new job?” He ducks under the yellow tape that surrounds the perimeter of the small property.
    Nicely done. Remind me at once that I have a new job; I don’t belong here.
    “Not all that different from the old one.”
    He chuckles and looks down at the grass, then gestures toward the moonlit sky, gloved palms up, and looks back at me. He’s about to tell me he’s sorry-he doesn’t make the rules, after all-but I can’t have access.
    “Come in, Martha,” I hear instead.
    Sergeant Terry is as startled as I am. Geraldine Schilling is standing on Sonia Baker’s miniature front porch, waving at us. “By all means, do come in.”
    The sergeant turns his wide eyes back to me, shrugs his shoulders, and lifts the yellow tape so I can pass. “She’s the boss,” he says.
    I smile at him.
    “Guess I didn’t need to tell you that,” he adds.
    Geraldine moves inside, still waving for me to follow, as if she just bought the place and is anxious to show me around. She’s here, I realize, covering for Stanley, a fact that hits me like a hammer. Stanley is busy doing what I should be doing-walking through Buck Hammond’s case one more time.
    I hurry up the cottage steps and shut the front door tight against the winter wind, wondering what motivates Geraldine’s hospitality. There are two possible explanations. She may think my viewing the scene-particularly if it’s