Read The Four-Night Run for Free Online

with a bed, a huge flat-screen, and a skylight that leaked during heavy rains but through which at night, after sex, you could see the glister of stars.
    “Thanks for the ride,” said Scrbacek.
    “I’m sure it wasn’t so bad as you may think,” said Dyer. “It’s a hard thing when a child dies. It can’t but seem that everything you say is wrong.”
    “It was worse than you could imagine.”
    “I’m sure it wasn’t.”
    “I tried to quote the Constitution to Mrs. Brummel.”
    “Oh.” Dyer turned to stare out the windshield without saying anything more.
    Scrbacek got out of the car and then leaned back through the open doorway. “But even so,” he said, “I appreciate you taking me. Sometimes I forget the things I should be doing, forget what’s important.”
    “I saw the way you were with the kid in court,” said Dyer. “You never bossed him. You listened to what he said. Some people are better at the eulogies than at being with the living.”
    “I suppose.”
    “In the Bureau they say you aren’t worth the shit we wipe off our shoes, but from here on I’ll stand up for you.”
    “Thanks, Stephanie, I think. You going to be at the hearing tomorrow?”
    “I’m testifying against your scum client.”
    “So I get to cross-examine you. Won’t that be fun.” Scrbacek glanced up at the bright neon glow of the casinos and then turned to face the darkness in the west. “This thing Surwin was talking about, the Furies, what the hell is that all about?”
    “Some Crapstown gang,” said Dyer. “One of a half dozen or so, though this one seems to rule the rest. We can’t get a handle on them, but they’re bad eggs for sure, pure killers. So scary we hear even your client is worried.”
    “Nasty enough to blow up cars?”
    “Nasty enough to blow up towns. Be careful, Tenderfoot. There’s still danger out there. Stay home tonight.”
    “I will.”
    “I’m serious now. To keep your street safe, we cleared away the reporters who were camped out here looking for a quote, but we can’t do anything if you don’t stay put.”
    “Don’t worry, Stephanie. I’m too exhausted to do anything other than sleep, even if I wanted to.”
    As Scrbacek was opening the front door of his building, Dyer called out through the car window. “Is Scrbacek really a Dutch name?”
    Scrbacek shook his head. “Flemish.”
    “Flemish?” said Dyer. “I never would have guessed.”
    Inside his office the answering machine was blinking like an idiot, soundless but full of fury. He dropped his briefcase and played the first few messages, all from reporters asking about the Breest trial and the bomb. Scrbacek loved talking to the press, was an unabashed publicity hound, glad to howl to even the lowliest members of the fourth estate, but tonight he simply wasn’t in the mood. Tomorrow. He’d give them all the choicest of quotes tomorrow.
    But tonight the office was dark as a hole and felt like work, and so instead of hanging around, he climbed the spiral stairwell to his apartment. He turned on the light and took off his raincoat, threw his shirt into the hamper, carefully hung his suit pants and jacket on a hanger, placed his tie upon the tie carousel in his closet. He took a drink of water, brushed his teeth, flossed, gargled, climbed into his loft, and turned off the light.
    Then he sneaked down the loft stairs, peered out the window, and watched as Dyer sat in her car for five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, before driving off.
    In the darkness of his apartment, lit only by the city light drifting through his windows, he put on a pair of jeans, his boots, a white shirt, his raincoat. He grabbed his wallet and keys, his last pack of cigs, his lighter, and his phone, which he placed into his raincoat pocket. Then he slipped down the spiral stairs and out the back door leading to the alley where they picked up the trash. On the horizon, rising above the tops of the low buildings, he could see already the bright