“SAID SERGEANT BRADLEY, SITTING back in his swivel chair, his fingers laced comfortably together beneath the round, comfortable swell of his belly. He shook his head. “I got nothing to do with her. Like I told your buddy Norman, you should check with missing persons. Or the FBI.” “Why the FBI?” I asked him. “Why are they involved? There’s no kidnapping here. She was the daughter’s legal guardian.” “Hey,” said Bradley, and showed me the palms of his meaty hands. “I look to you like a PR guy? Ask ...someone at the Bureau.” He put a nice ironic twist on the word Bureau. Like a lot of homicide cops, Bradley was a big man who had gotten bigger over the years. The extra weight comes from cheeseburgers and tacos and pizzas eaten on the run, and occasionally from the booze some of them use to wash away the memory of what it was they were running to, and running from. Unlike most homicide cops, except for Meyer Meyer and Kojak, Bradley was completely bald. The shiny scalp of his big round head was dented here and there, as though bullets had bounced off it.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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