contents of my pockets.
The sword was in my car. Even the best crafted look-away spell wouldn’t keep the metal detector from going crazy at my weapon. I hated to leave it behind, but couldn’t exactly bring it into a police station. Besides, I was here to watch them conduct an informal interview with a museum employee, a mistaken victim of a serial killer. No need for a bastard sword when I was in a station full of armed officers better equipped to take down a human threat than I was.
“Whoa! Dill’s!” Instead of greeting me, Tremelay snatched the box of cookies and caressed the lid. If only a man would show me that much affection.
Before I could reply there was a crowd around the cookie box. “Any chocolate chip?” “Ones with pecans?” “How about cinnamon spice?”
Tremelay wrapped his arms protectively around the box and glared at his co-workers.
“I brought three dozen,” I told him. He might want to consider sharing. I heard things at the station could get pretty frosty when someone refused to share baked goods.
“Afterward.” He shooed at the other cops, who tried to take advantage of his one armed hold on the box with attempts to grab it from his hands. “You guys make me drop these and I’m gonna have to discharge my service weapon.”
We elbowed our way past the hungry cops and into a little room with a huge picture window. I’d seen these two-way mirror things in hundreds of movies. I’m pretty sure by this point none of the folks being interviewed were fooled by the mirror.
At this moment, the room on the other side of the window was empty. Tremelay put the box of cookies down on the table and opened them, offering one to a guy who’d come into the room with us. He was less slovenly than Tremelay with a neat crease in his dark pants and starch in his white shirt. The two cops were about the same age, but this one had lost a good bit of his blond hair, the remaining amount trimmed short. In spite of the stereotypical affection toward donuts—and the verified fondness for cookies—this guy had managed to keep his midsection in the range of what I’d expect to see on a somewhat active middle-aged man.
“Norwicki,” he announced, crumbs decorating his bottom lip.
“Ainsworth,” I replied. No one had offered me a cookie yet, but since I’d bought the darned things, I went ahead and reached for one. I half expected Tremelay to slap my hand out of the way, but he generously allowed me to take a peanut butter.
“You the Templar?” I nodded and he continued. “Where’s your sword?”
“In the car.” Duh. Like they’d let me carry it around here.
“Can I see it?”
What was it about cops and my sword? I swear if there was a choice between seeing my boobs and my sword, they’d pick the sword.
“Where is Huang?” Tremelay interrupted, looking at his watch. “If he’s a no show, we need to send someone around to his house to pick him up.”
“Riiight,” Norwicki drawled, sneaking a hand into the cookie box. “The Lieutenant is never going to go for that. He’s obviously not our victim since he’s walking around alive with his skin still on. We can’t strong-arm a citizen just because there was a mistake coding his medical implant.”
“Little too much of a coincidence in my opinion,” Tremelay replied, ignoring the cookie theft. “Guy works at a museum, is there on the day a body winds up in the museum broom closet, and happens to have a medical device registry number that shows up in the corpse.”
Norwicki stuffed the whole cookie in his mouth, managing somehow to speak while chewing. “People do win the lottery. People do sometimes get hit by lightning. And people do sometimes work in a place where a dead guy is found with an implant that traces back to them. What are you saying, Tremelay? You think Huang switched knee implants with the victim, then skinned him and stuffed him in a back room at work? There’s nothing that points to him as the killer.
The sword was in my car. Even the best crafted look-away spell wouldn’t keep the metal detector from going crazy at my weapon. I hated to leave it behind, but couldn’t exactly bring it into a police station. Besides, I was here to watch them conduct an informal interview with a museum employee, a mistaken victim of a serial killer. No need for a bastard sword when I was in a station full of armed officers better equipped to take down a human threat than I was.
“Whoa! Dill’s!” Instead of greeting me, Tremelay snatched the box of cookies and caressed the lid. If only a man would show me that much affection.
Before I could reply there was a crowd around the cookie box. “Any chocolate chip?” “Ones with pecans?” “How about cinnamon spice?”
Tremelay wrapped his arms protectively around the box and glared at his co-workers.
“I brought three dozen,” I told him. He might want to consider sharing. I heard things at the station could get pretty frosty when someone refused to share baked goods.
“Afterward.” He shooed at the other cops, who tried to take advantage of his one armed hold on the box with attempts to grab it from his hands. “You guys make me drop these and I’m gonna have to discharge my service weapon.”
We elbowed our way past the hungry cops and into a little room with a huge picture window. I’d seen these two-way mirror things in hundreds of movies. I’m pretty sure by this point none of the folks being interviewed were fooled by the mirror.
At this moment, the room on the other side of the window was empty. Tremelay put the box of cookies down on the table and opened them, offering one to a guy who’d come into the room with us. He was less slovenly than Tremelay with a neat crease in his dark pants and starch in his white shirt. The two cops were about the same age, but this one had lost a good bit of his blond hair, the remaining amount trimmed short. In spite of the stereotypical affection toward donuts—and the verified fondness for cookies—this guy had managed to keep his midsection in the range of what I’d expect to see on a somewhat active middle-aged man.
“Norwicki,” he announced, crumbs decorating his bottom lip.
“Ainsworth,” I replied. No one had offered me a cookie yet, but since I’d bought the darned things, I went ahead and reached for one. I half expected Tremelay to slap my hand out of the way, but he generously allowed me to take a peanut butter.
“You the Templar?” I nodded and he continued. “Where’s your sword?”
“In the car.” Duh. Like they’d let me carry it around here.
“Can I see it?”
What was it about cops and my sword? I swear if there was a choice between seeing my boobs and my sword, they’d pick the sword.
“Where is Huang?” Tremelay interrupted, looking at his watch. “If he’s a no show, we need to send someone around to his house to pick him up.”
“Riiight,” Norwicki drawled, sneaking a hand into the cookie box. “The Lieutenant is never going to go for that. He’s obviously not our victim since he’s walking around alive with his skin still on. We can’t strong-arm a citizen just because there was a mistake coding his medical implant.”
“Little too much of a coincidence in my opinion,” Tremelay replied, ignoring the cookie theft. “Guy works at a museum, is there on the day a body winds up in the museum broom closet, and happens to have a medical device registry number that shows up in the corpse.”
Norwicki stuffed the whole cookie in his mouth, managing somehow to speak while chewing. “People do win the lottery. People do sometimes get hit by lightning. And people do sometimes work in a place where a dead guy is found with an implant that traces back to them. What are you saying, Tremelay? You think Huang switched knee implants with the victim, then skinned him and stuffed him in a back room at work? There’s nothing that points to him as the killer.
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