The Bird Boys by Lisa Sandlin (Delpha Wade and Tom Phelan Mystery Series #2)
English | 2019 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 754 Kb
The Bird Boys : After a serial killer almost murdered Delpha Wade (The Do-Right, 2015), the county hospital releases her into the handcuffs of the city police for questioning. The reason is she killed the man who was trying to kill her, and she is, after all, an ex-con. It’s still Beaumont, 1970s, and mindsets don’t change along the Texas Gulf Coast. Her boss, the neophyte private detective Tom Phelan, awaits her, and soon they are once again in deep shit. It seems like an easy case–one Bird brother looking for the long-lost other–but it turns out that one brother is a murderer.
He likes to slit throats. But which one? Maybe the young girl who sees into the dark places of human hearts can help. But only Delpha is wise enough to listen.
“His route: shoot past the Formica front desk and its likely guard, venerable Sergeant Fontenot with the wire-brush eyebrows. Swerve left into the squad room past bulletin boards tacked with mimeographs, past the cops shooting the breeze in school desks, others jabbing typewriters, a thief or two in the folding chairs. Jog straight to the back past a holding cell and bust into E.E.’s office, where he would persuade his uncle, the chief of police, to take Delpha Wade’s statement without first arresting her, printing her, locking her in a cell.
This fantasy was forbidden by station policy. Also by the Policemen’s Etiquette Guide and the Nephew’s Codebook. Moves like the one Phelan was entertaining were why the Suck-It-Up manual existed. Nevertheless, he nodded to the desk sergeant and kept on walking.
“Whoa dere! Where you passin’ yourself by to, Tom Phelan?”
Couple of uniforms off to the side gabbing. He stared them down and leaned over the scarred Formica to the sergeant. Instead of saying he was here because he’d been the first on the scene—his own office—or that he was Delpha Wade’s employer, which around the station was generally known, Phelan muttered, “You told me they wouldn’t charge her.”
Two riotous gray thatches thrust down over Sergeant Fontenot’s small, blue, troubled eyes. He had said that very thing, and now, appearing irritated by his own turmoil, he stalled. “Who you talking ‘bout?”
Phelan’s lips pulled to one side. “Delpha Wade. Doctor just called me, said police are down at the hospital hustling her in.”
“Hustlin’? Naw, naw, Abels and Tucker, they left here like a herd of turtles. We just bringing her in aks her some questions.”
“Lemme ask you one, Sergeant Fontenot. How many boys you dug up down at Deeterman’s house? What’s the tally?”
Now the uniforms angled toward Phelan.
“Six. So far. They off lookin’ in some other places now.”
“After he did what he did to those kids, you tell me offing that guy wasn’t a bona fide public service.”
“Fucking A,” put in one of the uniforms, a white kid with scrappy hair and a large red ear angled toward the front desk.
“Shut up, Wilson,” Fontenot said wearily. He lowered his chin and challenged Phelan. “Ain’t nobody don’ know that.”
“Then why y’all bringing her in?”