Shane Scully Double Pack by Stephen J. Cannell

Author:Stephen J. Cannell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2011-09-05T00:00:00+00:00

5

CHOOCH

SHANE ARRIVED HOME at a little past seven, driving a slickback he’d checked out of the motor pool. He parked the black-and-white detective’s car in the driveway and entered the back door. As he walked into the kitchen, Chooch was bent over with his head deep in the refrigerator. Startled, he jerked around and glowered.

“It’s fucking bleak in there, Chuck. Don’t you got nothin’ to eat?” Chooch was dressed in baggy jeans pulled down low, gangstyle, exposing two inches of his red plaid boxer shorts. His white T-shirt read EAT ME.

“There’s some strawberry Pop-Tarts in that cupboard,” Shane said as he quickly headed through the kitchen, hoping Chooch wouldn’t see his bloodstained feet and put him through a description of the early-morning shooting. Shane moved into the master bedroom, which was furnished in “relationship-eclectic.” Nothing matched. All the furniture in his house was salvaged from broken love affairs. It had gotten to the point where every time he and a new female roommate went furniture shopping, there was some cynical side of him that would wonder which of the new bedroom or living-room ensemble pieces would become his in the post-relationship settlement. The result was a depressing mixture of colors and styles.

He stripped off his blood-spattered sweatshirt and pants, then got into a hot shower, scrubbing Ray’s blood off his feet with his shower nailbrush, rubbing so hard that he was afraid his toes would bleed.

Shoot it; frame it; hang it in his gallery of defining moments. The Lady Macbeth Exhibit. He finished with his feet and then stood under the hot spray, trying with less result to cleanse his spirit. Finally he got out of the shower, wrapped himself in a towel, and looked in the foggy bathroom mirror. The face was angular and rugged. Dark eyes wore a raccoon’s mask of sleeplessness. His hair hung black and limp on his forehead. He stared at himself for a long time, trying to see if he looked as different as he felt. In his thirty-seven years Shane had never killed anyone before; on the drive home from the department, that change in his life experience had started to weigh on him. Now, as he stood in his bathroom, it was plunging him into a fit of depression, which, according to the self-help psych books he had started reading recently, was self-hatred turned inward, driving his spirit down. He turned away from the mirror and dressed in slacks, white shirt, maroon tie, and a blue blazer. He slipped on socks and loafers, clipped his backup gun onto his belt, grabbed his pager, badge, and handcuffs, then went into the living room, where Longboard Kelly was snoring on the sofa.

Shane shook the twenty-eight-year-old blond-haired surfboard shaper’s shoulder to wake him. Brian had turned out to be a surprisingly good friend. In the two years since Kelly had moved in next door and had started running his surfboard business out of his garage, the resinhead and the cop had surprised themselves with their unlikely friendship.

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