Below The Fold

I really fucking hate Tuesdays.

Mondays suck, sure, but at least they have the curious distinction of being Mondays. They’re the first day of the week, and the revel in their pompous self-importance like a fat tabby sitting on a radiator in a Lower East side flat in the middle of January.

Wednesdays are bearable because once Wednesday is over, it’s Thursday, and that’s Friday-eve.

Tuesdays, though. Those are the pricks of the week. They scurry about in Monday’s shadow in seething, angry obscurity like a younger step-sibling who never got to play little league because all the money was spent on his older sister’s braces. Tusdays are the scourge of the week, forgotten days that no one ever remembers, because—well, they’re fucking Tuesdays.

And, of course, today was a Tuesday.

“What happened, Gal?” My voice was two octaves higher than I’d like it to have been. Any pretense of coolness I had might have worked on someone else, but Galvin knew me, so I didn’t waste too much energy pretending I was ice-cool.

“We found Shea’s body in a dumpster over on Galapago, Quinn.” He leveled his gaze at me. “Right behind the Aztlan theatre.” There was a hint of an accent on the first syllable of Aztlan—like I needed any kind of reminder about what happened there. The coincidence was a little big, especially considering Shea lives in Aurora. Shit. Lived. She lived in Aurora. The other side of the city. Before she was murdered.

“One of the barbacks there saw her leg sticking out when he was emptying the trash yesterday morning.”

“Was there a show there Sunday night?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Galvin looked down at the notepad in his meaty hand. “Question Mark and the Mysterians.”

I chuckled at that. “You serious? They do ’96 Tears?’”

Galvin smiled. “That’s who they were. I couldn’t figure out what song they did.”

“I’ll take ‘obscure one-hit wonders from the 60s for $500, Alex,” I replied.

“Anyway, the kid freaks out and calls his manager. The dipshit manager decides to pull the body out—“

“You’re kidding me,” I blurted.

“Yeah, he corrupts the entire scene, pulls the body out and tries to perform CPR on her. Rigor had already set in, and this jagoff is pounding on her chest and giving her mouth-to-mouth until bugs start flying down his throat. Then he figures she’s not waking up and calls us down. What a putz.”

“Schmuck,” I agreed. “Any leads? Besides me, I mean.”

“Christ, Quinn. I know you didn’t off her. But we started trying to piece together her last 24 hours, and the last thing we can come up with is her leaving Sam’s with you Saturday night. Then, she’s off the radar until Monday morning… tell me what happened once you left the bar.”

I recapped seeing her at the bar, me needing to get Marin out of my system, us going out to the jeep for a while and then driving back to her place.

“When I left, it was still dark and she was dead asleep. Not dead, Gal. That’s the last I saw her.”

“Did you see anyone hanging around when you left? Any suspicious cars parked nearby or people walking around?”

“No, Gal. And I locked the door when I left. Was there anything out of place at her apartment?”

The door to the interrogation room swung open then and Pugface walked in.

One thing I hated more than Tuesdays was Pugface. One of the reasons I was off the force was because I put his head through a jukebox at the Piper. He sneered at me.

“”How’s the ear treatin’ ya, Pug?” I asked, flashing a toothy grin and fingering the top of my left ear. His was still missing, probably swept up off the floor and tossed out with the empty beer bottles from that night.

“Fuck off, Cannon. And it’s officer Douglas to you, you arrogant, unemployed sonuvabitch.” He leaned in close and I could smell his breath stinking of the peanut butter sandwich he had just stuffed in his crooked maw.

“Actually, I’m self-employed, now, Pug. Kind of like your mother back when vice busted her at Colfax and Steele.” Pug lunged at me, but Gal knew it was coming and grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and slammed him against the wall.

“You know he can still bust your ass,” Gal said to him as I leaned back and laced my fingers behind my head. “What do you want anyway?” Pug motioned to leave the room, and the two of them stepped out into the hall.

I stared at the glass and wondered who was watching in there. Kravitch? Mulland? Moreland? Safe money would have been on Moreland. He was politically the safest choice, and I was willing to take my chances with him He was thorough and usually pretty fair.

The door opened again and Galvin came in with some A.D.A. I didn’t recognize. Pug was all smiles.

Fuck.

“Quinn Cannon, I’m Assistant District Attorney Mark Whelling. You’re being placed under arrest for the Murder of Shea Rivers.”

I really fucking hate Tuesdays.