When It Comes (Vampire Assassin League Book 31) by Jackie Ivie Page A
Authors: Jackie Ivie
Ads: Link
really bizarre.
Morning sunlight from a myriad of high windows reflected off the rows of lockers. Mitch zipped through his locker combination, opened the front with a careful tug, and settled the backpack containing his belongings at the bottom of it. He topped the backpack bundle with his helmet. Removed his riding coat, hung it from a peg. Shimmied out of his chaps, swatting them back to right-side out. Draped the leather pants from another peg. Pulled off his sunglasses, and—
Holy shit!
The world immediately turned into a blindingly bright, scorching, light-filled blur. Mitch shoved the sunglasses back on and waited a few moments before attempting to squint. He regarded the dark blob image in the mirror hanging from his upper shelf before slamming the locker shut. That was stupid. His action put a large dent into the metal. These oddball changes could get annoying. He needed to investigate. Figure it out. His strength had been multiplied or something. He couldn’t seem to get a decent reflection. His senses were at hyper-level. He had two distinct sore spots on his neck. And direct sunlight was akin to taking a blow. There were a lot of sunlit windows between here and the interrogation room. He didn’t need to be a seer to get the message: It was going to be an unpleasant morning.
He sighed heavily and got ready for the heckling.
Nobody had shifted in the interrogation room. Some of the occupants were sipping coffee. Donny shoved a half-doughnut into his mouth and chewed. Swallowed. Grabbed another glazed confection from the open box on the table. The doughnut box wasn’t the lone thing on the table. There was a cardboard box containing a row of folders now. A pitcher of water was at the far end. A stack of plastic cups. Mitch walked past Donny and poured out a cup full of cold water. And then he worked to hide the gag reflex as he tried to swallow it.
Damn it.
The same thing had happened when he’d tried to eat breakfast. Now he couldn’t handle drinking water?
He managed to swallow half of the glass before setting it down and looking over and down at most of the assemblage. It was pretty much the same personnel as yesterday. The sketch artist was missing. She’d been replaced by an older gent in a suit that needed pressing. Another suited fellow with gray-tipped temples stood beside Captain Thomas. They were all looking at him.
“You want to remove the glasses, Hartnett?” Captain Thomas requested.
“In a minute.”
She sighed.
“Apologies, Captain. It was...a bad night.”
That was so far from the truth he almost chuckled. It was better to answer in monosyllables. Easier to defend, too.
“Get the lights dimmed, Donny. In the meantime, why don’t we start? Doctor? Would you step outside for a moment?”
Donny left. The fellow in the rumpled suit breezed past where Mitch stood and followed on Donny’s heels. The door shut behind them. Mitch felt the space between his shoulder blades tense. He stood straighter. They had a doctor here?
A doctor of what?
“Go ahead, director. This is your show.”
Captain Thomas motioned toward the dude with the gray-tipped temples. He took a step forward.
Whoa.
They had an FBI director, too? Well. That certainly explained Randy’s lack of antagonism this morning. Mitch almost smiled.
“I’m a field director, gentlemen. And lady. I’m not normally investigating pick-pockets from rock festivals. But. As you all know. This is different.”
He broke the words into mini-phrases. The spot in Mitch’s back twinged. That could get annoying, too.
“Apparently, we’ve lucked onto the trail of a – I’m not going to say she’s a serial killer, because that has yet to be proven. But the evidence is clearly mounting. We have something significant here. The woman Detective Harnett tried to arrest has a very strange set of fingerprints. So far we’ve linked her prints to twelve unsolved cold-case murders. Twelve. The oldest one is from 1956.
Morning sunlight from a myriad of high windows reflected off the rows of lockers. Mitch zipped through his locker combination, opened the front with a careful tug, and settled the backpack containing his belongings at the bottom of it. He topped the backpack bundle with his helmet. Removed his riding coat, hung it from a peg. Shimmied out of his chaps, swatting them back to right-side out. Draped the leather pants from another peg. Pulled off his sunglasses, and—
Holy shit!
The world immediately turned into a blindingly bright, scorching, light-filled blur. Mitch shoved the sunglasses back on and waited a few moments before attempting to squint. He regarded the dark blob image in the mirror hanging from his upper shelf before slamming the locker shut. That was stupid. His action put a large dent into the metal. These oddball changes could get annoying. He needed to investigate. Figure it out. His strength had been multiplied or something. He couldn’t seem to get a decent reflection. His senses were at hyper-level. He had two distinct sore spots on his neck. And direct sunlight was akin to taking a blow. There were a lot of sunlit windows between here and the interrogation room. He didn’t need to be a seer to get the message: It was going to be an unpleasant morning.
He sighed heavily and got ready for the heckling.
Nobody had shifted in the interrogation room. Some of the occupants were sipping coffee. Donny shoved a half-doughnut into his mouth and chewed. Swallowed. Grabbed another glazed confection from the open box on the table. The doughnut box wasn’t the lone thing on the table. There was a cardboard box containing a row of folders now. A pitcher of water was at the far end. A stack of plastic cups. Mitch walked past Donny and poured out a cup full of cold water. And then he worked to hide the gag reflex as he tried to swallow it.
Damn it.
The same thing had happened when he’d tried to eat breakfast. Now he couldn’t handle drinking water?
He managed to swallow half of the glass before setting it down and looking over and down at most of the assemblage. It was pretty much the same personnel as yesterday. The sketch artist was missing. She’d been replaced by an older gent in a suit that needed pressing. Another suited fellow with gray-tipped temples stood beside Captain Thomas. They were all looking at him.
“You want to remove the glasses, Hartnett?” Captain Thomas requested.
“In a minute.”
She sighed.
“Apologies, Captain. It was...a bad night.”
That was so far from the truth he almost chuckled. It was better to answer in monosyllables. Easier to defend, too.
“Get the lights dimmed, Donny. In the meantime, why don’t we start? Doctor? Would you step outside for a moment?”
Donny left. The fellow in the rumpled suit breezed past where Mitch stood and followed on Donny’s heels. The door shut behind them. Mitch felt the space between his shoulder blades tense. He stood straighter. They had a doctor here?
A doctor of what?
“Go ahead, director. This is your show.”
Captain Thomas motioned toward the dude with the gray-tipped temples. He took a step forward.
Whoa.
They had an FBI director, too? Well. That certainly explained Randy’s lack of antagonism this morning. Mitch almost smiled.
“I’m a field director, gentlemen. And lady. I’m not normally investigating pick-pockets from rock festivals. But. As you all know. This is different.”
He broke the words into mini-phrases. The spot in Mitch’s back twinged. That could get annoying, too.
“Apparently, we’ve lucked onto the trail of a – I’m not going to say she’s a serial killer, because that has yet to be proven. But the evidence is clearly mounting. We have something significant here. The woman Detective Harnett tried to arrest has a very strange set of fingerprints. So far we’ve linked her prints to twelve unsolved cold-case murders. Twelve. The oldest one is from 1956.
Similar Books
