The Dead Soul Read Online Free PDF

variety was for the weak-minded. The undecided. So he went out and bought five of the same dark blue Hager suits, FBI-certified. Five white Ralph Lauren dress shirts. A collection of pastel-colored ties. Today he wore fire-engine red against that familiar G-man uniform. Mixing it up, Jake clipped on one of those American flag pins politicians started attaching to their lapels post-9/11, with the exception that Jake wore his for far different reasons.
    Mo Blackhall was down the hall, getting ready to leave. He heard Jake’s door click shut, then footsteps. Back in the day, Mo was that cop. The one you smacked on the shoulder every morning after roll call so the other cops saw you do it. The guy you blew off your wife for on Saturday nights to sit next to at the poker table. Had beers with at Red Sox games while screaming obscenities at slumping players. If you needed something, even from brass, Mo got it done.
    As Jake made his way down the hallway, Mo came around the corner, stepped in front of him.
    Jake cut him off with raised hands. “Not now, Mo. I’m working a tip. Gotta run and meet Dickie.”
    “Yeah, I heard,” Mo said. He sported a face full of salt-and-pepper stubble. Mo looked tired, raccoon bags under his eyes. Shaking his head, a cocky grin and smart-ass laugh Jake hated, he said: “This is your big chance, huh, kid?”
    That hurt. Kid. What a slap. But Jake had no time to get into this now. Anyway, Mo had his own demons to contend with. He was on his way out. Sure, Mo had carried Jake Cooper up through the force, showing him the ropes. In many ways, Mo rescued Jake from the streets of Southie. But he’d been the subject of rumors the past year. No one seemed to know what was going on. The only thing certain was that Mo was too damn drunk to care or notice.
    Standing, getting a good whiff of him, Jake could tell Mo had just hit his flask—and the drinking was, Jake knew, the least of Mo Blackhall’s problems. Definitely not the reason why the lieutenant wasn’t allowing him out of the office to investigate cases anymore.
    “Mo, listen. I don’t have time for this!” Jake pushed himself past his former mentor, made a beeline for the elevators.
    Mo followed, fidgeting with an unlit cigar stub in his mouth. “We need to talk, Jake. You’re part of this.” He paused. “Don’t forget where you’re from. You got debts, too, kiddo.” 
    Those contemptuous threats rustled Jake, making the anxiety flow hot, like nicotine, through his veins. The guy had some nerve.
    “Jake, you on your way?” Dickie said over the radio. Jake was in the elevator, pushing the G button with the asterisk next to it.
    Mo stood in front of the elevator doors as they closed. “You can only break so many times without shattering, Jake.” He used his hands to mime an explosion.
    “Give me ten minutes,” Jake said to his partner, dropping his head as the elevator doors closed, and Mo disappeared from view.
    In the lobby downstairs, Jake kicked the door into the parking lot open, those words shaking him up.
    … You’re part of this. …
    There was that damn residue of ancient days, emerging like rust. Jake’s legs were heavy as stone. What else could Mo be referring to?
    “The past will always be there, Jake.” The conversation took place two weeks ago. Jake was walking away from Father John O’Brien, throwing up his hands, saying he was finished with the Church. He had no faith left. He had gone to the priest for guidance. Support. Jake still couldn’t reconcile with a God who could allow an innocent little girl to die the way she did? “ We carry all our sins with us ,” Father John continued as Jake stopped before heading out the rectory door. “ You either face them, or allow them to destroy you.” Jake hadn’t seen Father John since.
    Before taking off in his Crown Vic, Jake took a deep breath.
    One death at a time.
     

 
    7
     
    Thursday, September 4 – 3:46 P.M.
     
    Jake sat with Dickie inside his Crown