stepped in, dressed impeccably as always. He wasn’t like the captains in the movies, with their ties crooked and their jackets in dire need of an iron, though that pretty much described Ubie to a T. Captain Eckert was more like an older cover model for
GQ.
His clothes were always pressed, his tie always straight, his back always rigid. I could only imagine the anal jokes that floated around the precinct.
“Captain,” I said, letting the surprise I felt filter into my voice. It was weird how every time I said the word
captain,
I wanted to tack on a
Jack Sparrow
at the end.
The last time we’d spoken was a few days ago when I’d basically solved three cases in one fell swoop. Possibly four. It was the wrong thing to do. He took note and had been curious about me, about my role at the station as a consultant, ever since. I wasn’t sure what to make of his curiosity. He seemed suspicious, but unless he knew that there was a grim reaper roaming the lands solving his cases for him, what on earth could he be suspicious about? “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
He analyzed my offices a full minute before answering. With his back to me as he took in the same painting Mrs. Garza had, he said, “I’ve decided to keep closer tabs on any and all consultants the APD has on payroll.”
Crap. “Really? H-how many are there?”
“Removing any experts we occasionally use, like psychologists and the like, CIs and any consultants who are not actually on the payroll, that pretty much leaves just one.”
“Oh.” I offered up my best Sunday smile. “Surely you don’t mean little ole me?”
He executed a perfect heel-to-toe turn. “I do, in fact.”
I tried not to be intimidated. It didn’t work. “Well, okay, this is my office.”
“I was a detective, Davidson.”
“Right, I just meant that this is pretty much all there is. I’m not sure what kind of tabs you wanted to keep, but —”
“How do you do it?” He’d turned back to study the books on my bookshelf. I prayed he didn’t pay too close attention.
Sweet Savage Love
was probably not the kind of material he wanted his consultants to read.
I sat back behind my desk and took a sip of coffee. Liquid courage. “I’m sorry?”
“You seem to be very adept at solving cases and I was just wondering what your methods were.”
“Oh, well, you know. I’m a detective.” I laughed, sounding slightly more insane than I’d intended. “I detect.”
He strolled over and sat in the chair opposite me, laying his hat in his lap. “And what methods of
detection
do you use?”
“Just the everyday kind,” I said, having no idea what to say to that. What was he trying to get from me? “I just think to myself, ‘What would Sherlock do?’ ”
“Sherlock?”
“I even have a bracelet with the acronym WWSD on it. It’s my favorite. It’s plastic.” I was losing it. Spurting out inconsequential facts. He was so going to bust me. But for what? Why was I so nervous? I had a difficult time with confrontations. Two in one morning was going to be my undoing.
“And when you were nine? What methods of detection did you use then?”
I coughed. “Nine?”
“And how about when you were five? How did you solve cases for your father when you were five years old?”
“M-my father?”
“I’ve been doing some research,” he said, picking lint off his hat, “conducting a few interviews. It seems you helped your father for years and now you assist your uncle. Have been for some time now.”
Holy cow, was this air-the-dirty-laundry day? I would’ve worn my good underwear instead of the ones that said admission by invitation only . “I’m not really sure what you mean. I just became a PI a little over two years ago.”
“I mean, you’ve been helping your relatives advance their careers for quite some time now. I just want to know how.”
“You know, some people would find that idea ludicrous.”
“But not you.”
“No, sir. Probably not me.
GQ.
His clothes were always pressed, his tie always straight, his back always rigid. I could only imagine the anal jokes that floated around the precinct.
“Captain,” I said, letting the surprise I felt filter into my voice. It was weird how every time I said the word
captain,
I wanted to tack on a
Jack Sparrow
at the end.
The last time we’d spoken was a few days ago when I’d basically solved three cases in one fell swoop. Possibly four. It was the wrong thing to do. He took note and had been curious about me, about my role at the station as a consultant, ever since. I wasn’t sure what to make of his curiosity. He seemed suspicious, but unless he knew that there was a grim reaper roaming the lands solving his cases for him, what on earth could he be suspicious about? “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
He analyzed my offices a full minute before answering. With his back to me as he took in the same painting Mrs. Garza had, he said, “I’ve decided to keep closer tabs on any and all consultants the APD has on payroll.”
Crap. “Really? H-how many are there?”
“Removing any experts we occasionally use, like psychologists and the like, CIs and any consultants who are not actually on the payroll, that pretty much leaves just one.”
“Oh.” I offered up my best Sunday smile. “Surely you don’t mean little ole me?”
He executed a perfect heel-to-toe turn. “I do, in fact.”
I tried not to be intimidated. It didn’t work. “Well, okay, this is my office.”
“I was a detective, Davidson.”
“Right, I just meant that this is pretty much all there is. I’m not sure what kind of tabs you wanted to keep, but —”
“How do you do it?” He’d turned back to study the books on my bookshelf. I prayed he didn’t pay too close attention.
Sweet Savage Love
was probably not the kind of material he wanted his consultants to read.
I sat back behind my desk and took a sip of coffee. Liquid courage. “I’m sorry?”
“You seem to be very adept at solving cases and I was just wondering what your methods were.”
“Oh, well, you know. I’m a detective.” I laughed, sounding slightly more insane than I’d intended. “I detect.”
He strolled over and sat in the chair opposite me, laying his hat in his lap. “And what methods of
detection
do you use?”
“Just the everyday kind,” I said, having no idea what to say to that. What was he trying to get from me? “I just think to myself, ‘What would Sherlock do?’ ”
“Sherlock?”
“I even have a bracelet with the acronym WWSD on it. It’s my favorite. It’s plastic.” I was losing it. Spurting out inconsequential facts. He was so going to bust me. But for what? Why was I so nervous? I had a difficult time with confrontations. Two in one morning was going to be my undoing.
“And when you were nine? What methods of detection did you use then?”
I coughed. “Nine?”
“And how about when you were five? How did you solve cases for your father when you were five years old?”
“M-my father?”
“I’ve been doing some research,” he said, picking lint off his hat, “conducting a few interviews. It seems you helped your father for years and now you assist your uncle. Have been for some time now.”
Holy cow, was this air-the-dirty-laundry day? I would’ve worn my good underwear instead of the ones that said admission by invitation only . “I’m not really sure what you mean. I just became a PI a little over two years ago.”
“I mean, you’ve been helping your relatives advance their careers for quite some time now. I just want to know how.”
“You know, some people would find that idea ludicrous.”
“But not you.”
“No, sir. Probably not me.
Similar Books
