amount of sense.
Lawrence Decker
was
one of a kind.
He was also an enigma. Just when Tracy thought she'd figured him out, identifying him as a man of certainty and consistency, always ordering the exact same type of pizza or coffee, he'd go and do something completely unexpected.
She, however,
was
as predictable as a stone.
Even when the cold hard truth was staring her in the face, she “what if-ed” her way into believing improbable and ridiculous possibilities.
What if Jimmy were just
pretending
to be dead … ?
And yes, it was probably the fact that, before Decker had caught him and brought him to justice, creepy and evil Tim Ebersole had faked
his
death, that had made Tracy come up with that ridiculous idea.
It created a far nicer scenario than the one in which Jimmy was forever gone.
But the truth was, as much as she wished otherwise, that this was real life, not some Hollywood thriller where Jimmy would emerge from hiding when the time was right.
No, Jimmy Nash was dead—his ashes contained in a pathetic little urn that now sat on the mantel of the gas fireplace in the apartment he'd once shared with Tess.
Tracy knew, because she'd found it there. She'd recognized it—it had sat on the altar of the church during his funeral.
The memorial service was lovely.
Why were some people so unbelievably stupid?
Someone—a client—had said that, just today, to Decker, in the lobby, right in front of Tracy's desk.
The memorial service
wasn't
lovely. A good friend had
died.
Violently. And Tracy was sorry, but there were no comforting words or musical selections that could make anything even remotely connected to that tragedy into something that could ever be described as
lovely.
She sighed as she humped her groceries up the stairs past Jimmy and Tess's, to her own apartment, remarkably fatigued after what had been an unusually quiet day at Troubleshooters Incorporated.
She hadn't created an incident, although she'd been tempted to. Instead, she'd sat at her desk and bit back the words she wanted to say
— Personally? I thought the memorial service sucked—
as she'd forced a smile at the imbecile who'd uttered that crap.
Decker had shown the king of the buttholes to the door and headed to his office, hand on the back of his neck as if he'd had a killer of a headache.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Tracy had asked him, and he'd actually looked surprised. Or maybe that had been fear she'd seen in his usually steady eyes, so she added, “Tom just made a fresh pot.” Subtext: Someone else me made it—not me.
She'd long since learned how to make a proper pot of coffee, but those first few months she'd worked as Troubleshooter's receptionist, she'd gotten it really wrong, too many times.
And the myth that her coffee was unpalatable lived on.
“No thanks,” he'd said. “I'm all set.”
“I'm sorry about …” She'd pointed to the door.
“Lovely.
God.”
Deck had smiled ruefully, and disappeared back into his office, leaving her to the scheduling, which was becoming quite the challenge.
Sam and Alyssa had just gotten the boss's permission for a solid month of lost time—what was he thinking? And Dave was going to Boston with Sophia, whose father was in the hospital. Their return date was unknown. Tess was still on medical leave, and Decker, too, was only working part-time and if anyone else called in with some excuse not to show up, they might as well shut the office down for the entire rest of September.
And maybe they should. They could all use a break.
Tracy set her grocery bags down in the hall as she unlocked her apartment door. She went inside, kicking it shut behind her as she hustled the groceries into the kitchen, where she put the salad and the fish in the fridge, because dinner could wait. She hurried into her bedroom, dumping her laptop on her bed so she could change into a T-shirt and jeans.
It had to be Lawrence Decker down there in Tess and Jimmy's apartment. He was
Lawrence Decker
was
one of a kind.
He was also an enigma. Just when Tracy thought she'd figured him out, identifying him as a man of certainty and consistency, always ordering the exact same type of pizza or coffee, he'd go and do something completely unexpected.
She, however,
was
as predictable as a stone.
Even when the cold hard truth was staring her in the face, she “what if-ed” her way into believing improbable and ridiculous possibilities.
What if Jimmy were just
pretending
to be dead … ?
And yes, it was probably the fact that, before Decker had caught him and brought him to justice, creepy and evil Tim Ebersole had faked
his
death, that had made Tracy come up with that ridiculous idea.
It created a far nicer scenario than the one in which Jimmy was forever gone.
But the truth was, as much as she wished otherwise, that this was real life, not some Hollywood thriller where Jimmy would emerge from hiding when the time was right.
No, Jimmy Nash was dead—his ashes contained in a pathetic little urn that now sat on the mantel of the gas fireplace in the apartment he'd once shared with Tess.
Tracy knew, because she'd found it there. She'd recognized it—it had sat on the altar of the church during his funeral.
The memorial service was lovely.
Why were some people so unbelievably stupid?
Someone—a client—had said that, just today, to Decker, in the lobby, right in front of Tracy's desk.
The memorial service
wasn't
lovely. A good friend had
died.
Violently. And Tracy was sorry, but there were no comforting words or musical selections that could make anything even remotely connected to that tragedy into something that could ever be described as
lovely.
She sighed as she humped her groceries up the stairs past Jimmy and Tess's, to her own apartment, remarkably fatigued after what had been an unusually quiet day at Troubleshooters Incorporated.
She hadn't created an incident, although she'd been tempted to. Instead, she'd sat at her desk and bit back the words she wanted to say
— Personally? I thought the memorial service sucked—
as she'd forced a smile at the imbecile who'd uttered that crap.
Decker had shown the king of the buttholes to the door and headed to his office, hand on the back of his neck as if he'd had a killer of a headache.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Tracy had asked him, and he'd actually looked surprised. Or maybe that had been fear she'd seen in his usually steady eyes, so she added, “Tom just made a fresh pot.” Subtext: Someone else me made it—not me.
She'd long since learned how to make a proper pot of coffee, but those first few months she'd worked as Troubleshooter's receptionist, she'd gotten it really wrong, too many times.
And the myth that her coffee was unpalatable lived on.
“No thanks,” he'd said. “I'm all set.”
“I'm sorry about …” She'd pointed to the door.
“Lovely.
God.”
Deck had smiled ruefully, and disappeared back into his office, leaving her to the scheduling, which was becoming quite the challenge.
Sam and Alyssa had just gotten the boss's permission for a solid month of lost time—what was he thinking? And Dave was going to Boston with Sophia, whose father was in the hospital. Their return date was unknown. Tess was still on medical leave, and Decker, too, was only working part-time and if anyone else called in with some excuse not to show up, they might as well shut the office down for the entire rest of September.
And maybe they should. They could all use a break.
Tracy set her grocery bags down in the hall as she unlocked her apartment door. She went inside, kicking it shut behind her as she hustled the groceries into the kitchen, where she put the salad and the fish in the fridge, because dinner could wait. She hurried into her bedroom, dumping her laptop on her bed so she could change into a T-shirt and jeans.
It had to be Lawrence Decker down there in Tess and Jimmy's apartment. He was
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