They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee Read Online Free PDF

had slipped his mind. It hadn’t, however, slipped the minds of Jeff Klein or Nick Fazio. On the contrary, the Hernandez case seemed like a very hot topic.
    â€œShow the man some respect, Fazio,” MacClough said coolly. “His nephew is missing and he buried his old man yesterday. You think he gives a shit about us?”
    â€œSorry about your father,” the detective said, finally facing me. “Look, Mr. Klein, I know the file. I’ll tell you what Caliparri probably told that big macher brother of yours; the kid split. Maybe the pressure of school got too much for him. Maybe he knocked up some girl. Maybe it’s drugs, maybe booze. Maybe it’s all of the above. In this town, the major cash crop is dysfunctional teenagers. Money fucks ‘em up. Now don’t get me wrong. We’ll keep the file open, but he’ll show of his own accord. In this town, they always do.”
    I wanted to argue. I didn’t. He made sense. I hoped like hell he was right. I peeked over my shoulder at MacClough, but his expression said nothing to me.
    â€œThank you, Detective. I hope you don’t mind if I check in with you every few days.”
    â€œNot at all, Mr. Klein. Sorry again about your dad.”
    â€œSorry about Detective Caliparri,” I said.
    He was too busy lighting up to respond. I was by the door, but MacClough had yet to move. He seemed distant, preoccupied.
    â€œDo you think they’re related?” MacClough spoke to Fazio.
    â€œIs what related,” the detective asked rhetorically, “a dead cop and a missing college boy? You been off the job too long. They happened weeks apart. And you’re forgetting, technically the kid went missing all the way the hell upstate in Riversborough. What’s the connection?”
    â€œJust a thought,” MacClough said, “just a thought.”
    As I began pulling Fazio’s office door open, someone on the other side pushed it hard. That displeased my right knee greatly.
    â€œSorry!” It was Sergeant Hurley.
    â€œFor chrissakes, Hurley, what is it?” Fazio was impatient.
    â€œPrivate security firm reports a 1030.”
    â€œCall out the fucking National Guard!” Impatience turned to sarcasm. “I got a dead cop here. On a good day I don’t give a rat’s ass about a 1030. What makes today any different?”
    â€œI think it’s kinda relevant,” Hurley sneered.
    â€œWhy? Where’d the break-in happen, at the mayor’s residence?”
    â€œNo Detective Fazio, it happened at 5 Lovesong Lane. That’s Mr.—”
    I cut her off. “That’s my brother’s house!”
    Either Zak’s room had been ripped apart by someone who had a grudge against electronic equipment and wall-board or it had been visited by the world’s most discerning tornado. It even looked worse than most teenagers’ rooms. The rest of Jeffrey’s Victorian nirvana up there overlooking the Hudson had remained untouched.
    Before we went in, MacClough said just this: “You know nothing.”
    That was a pretty accurate assessment, I thought. But I knew what he meant. Insurance investigators play this game with police all the time. I was to keep private anything I might notice. Fazio and his uniformed minions were to be frozen out, at least for the time being. It was especially easy to play the game that day, for, as I kept reminding the local constabulary: I didn’t live there. I didn’t know where things went. I didn’t know what was missing. It got so tedious, I wanted to run to the nearest print shop and have cards made that read: “My brother will be here shortly. Ask him!”
    MacClough had kept his mouth shut until Fazio, frustrated with my inconvenient lack of knowledge and my ban on his smoking in Jeffrey’s house, dismissed us: “You can go.”
    â€œStill think there’s no connection?” MacClough wondered