Tag - professional sleuth
Life’s a marathon, and Derek Finley beat me to the finish line. His home health aide, Ms. Baxter, let me in. “He passed just as the clock struck noon,” she told me, lowering the sheet so I could see for myself.
Inwardly, I cursed. I’d heard the grandfather clock’s chimes while climbing the
Vermont sunshine lights up the blooming forsythia like neon as I pull into the driveway. Back when I was a kid, I thought those bushes were magical—fairy torches or some such nonsense. Now they remind me of something else.
“…last known location.” Agent Vex’s voice fizzles over the intercom, but I haven’t
What’s a spy’s greatest enemy? Ask any red-blubbered agent in Her Majesty’s Sea Critter Service and they’ll give you the same answer.
I sighed and looked down my glasses at the long flight of marble steps awaiting me. Bubbly Christmas music played in the background. The ballroom was alive with sea creatures mingling.Read it now
The words echo in my ears, but this time, they’re not aimed at me.
I’m not a shifter, merely an illusionist. It’s people’s eyes who change, not me. We can take on a few characteristics of the animal, like super-speed, flight, or deep-sea swimming. And even if it weakens my other senses,
Marshal Roland Chadwick pressed his nose to the desert floor and sniffed. A whiff of sulfur entered his nostrils, receded, and returned stronger. He snorted and coughed. The smell of hades wasn’t easily dismissed. But it came with the territory. Without it, he’d be out of a job.
He mounted his horse and rode,
Minotaurs are dangerous enough when they ain’t toting semi-automatics. These young bulls are looking to cause trouble, and I just want lunch.
“My gumbo’s getting cold, Quigley.”
“I don’t care about your stupid gumbo, LaFaye.”
My partner has no soul. He’s crouching behind a wooden shed with me, both of us surroundedRead it now
Of all the underground clubs in this sodden sponge of a city, it had to be that one.
I tugged my fedora lower over my brows, but it did little to block out the damp chill of the October night. My neck prickled as I surveyed the disturbing sight splayed out on the alley’s cracked asphalt.
The blessed coffee cup is almost to my lips when the call comes.
“Linda, 10-91a. Fifth and Columbus.”
Carla. She’s one of the few cops open-minded enough to take me and my work seriously. 10-91a is the code for “stray animal.” In my case, though, it means something different. Carla leaves her mic on
“Are you sure about this?” My stomach turned as I played with the sleeves of my sweater, worrying a few loose threads between my fingertips.
Eastwood paced across the cramped room where we’d been locked away. “We’re in a bit of a pickle here, Rose. I don’t see any other way.Read it now