problem with someone else being in charge was that they didn't necessarily have my best interests in mind.
Zigler probably wanted to solve crimes. He'd want to succeed.
I suppose that was what I wanted, too. Probably. Okay, maybe I wasn't the world's most vigilant crime fighter. But murderers really were at the top of my shit list.
"...and he's allergic to shellfish, papayas, peanuts, wheat gluten, dust mites, and bee stings. You don't suppose Ronnie got stung by a bee, detective, do you?"
"I believe that bee activity is fairly unusual after the first hard frost," Zigler answered, deadpan.
"Oh. I see. Well, Ronnie had this pair of shoes that he had to take back to the cobbler. Fallen arches, you know. And the last repair he had done made one leg longer than the other, so that..."
I was pretty darn sure that Jacob wanted what was best for me. I well and truly didn't care what kind of house he picked out, as long as it wasn't already inhabited. And sex? It was starting to look like I got off handing over the reins in that department, too. But I still needed to make certain choices myself. I think I'd get resentful, otherwise—start lumping Jacob in with all the people who'd run my life from the shitty foster parents up through the psychos at Camp Hell.
"Did you have any questions, Detective Bayne?" asked Zigler. He stared at me hard. He must've been dying to get home before his Tater Tots got cold.
I gave Mrs. Adamson the once-over, but there weren't any prophetical spirit heads protruding from the slight hump on her back. "I think that'll be all," I said. "We'll be in touch, ma'am."
"Find Ronnie," she said. "You have to find him. He could be sick, hurt..."
I did my best to look reassuring. I nodded. "As soon as we find anything, we'll be in touch."
* * * *
It was nearly eight by the time I dragged myself up three flights of stairs to my apartment. The next place would either need to be on the first floor or have an elevator for sure. I'd have to tell Jacob. There had to be some place in a city of three million that was both easily accessible and not haunted.
Right?
I opened my door and hung my blazer on its peg. A candle burned in my kitchen, which made it look nothing at all like my actual kitchen. You couldn't tell that everything was white, and as cheap as it was humanly possible to manufacture. But there were also shifting shadows everywhere. Not good. I flicked on the overhead. It may have totally ruined the ambience, but ambience was something I'd learned to live without.
Jacob came into the kitchen, squinting a little at its brightness. "Are pork chops okay? They might be a little dry."
"I don't care—I'm two hours later than I meant to be. Just don't put any ketchup on them."
Jacob took a foil-covered plate out of the oven. "Ketchup doesn't go very well with rosemary and fennel."
I wasn't quite sure what fennel was, but it sounded fancy.
"Sorry," Jacob said, sliding the plate onto the counter in front of me. "I already ate without you. I wasn't sure how late you'd be."
"Neither was I." I took a bite of pork chop. It might've been a little tough after sitting for two hours, but so what? It was tastier by leaps and bounds than anything I'd be able to produce.
Jacob sat on the stool beside mine and propped his elbow on the countertop, resting his cheek against his knuckles. He could've been modeling for a cologne ad—if the lighting were less severe. "I take it by the look on your face that you haven't found anything," he said.
"Nothing."
"It's pretty ballsy of the two of you to zero in on Adamson and Lopez when Andy Lynch was the last one seen."
At first I thought Jacob was criticizing our approach, but judging by the curve at the corner of his mouth, he was proud of us for not caving in and focusing all our efforts on the guy with connections.
"I think if we find one, we find 'em all. Besides, the NP detectives are all over Lynch's route." I plowed through everything on my plate, figuring
Zigler probably wanted to solve crimes. He'd want to succeed.
I suppose that was what I wanted, too. Probably. Okay, maybe I wasn't the world's most vigilant crime fighter. But murderers really were at the top of my shit list.
"...and he's allergic to shellfish, papayas, peanuts, wheat gluten, dust mites, and bee stings. You don't suppose Ronnie got stung by a bee, detective, do you?"
"I believe that bee activity is fairly unusual after the first hard frost," Zigler answered, deadpan.
"Oh. I see. Well, Ronnie had this pair of shoes that he had to take back to the cobbler. Fallen arches, you know. And the last repair he had done made one leg longer than the other, so that..."
I was pretty darn sure that Jacob wanted what was best for me. I well and truly didn't care what kind of house he picked out, as long as it wasn't already inhabited. And sex? It was starting to look like I got off handing over the reins in that department, too. But I still needed to make certain choices myself. I think I'd get resentful, otherwise—start lumping Jacob in with all the people who'd run my life from the shitty foster parents up through the psychos at Camp Hell.
"Did you have any questions, Detective Bayne?" asked Zigler. He stared at me hard. He must've been dying to get home before his Tater Tots got cold.
I gave Mrs. Adamson the once-over, but there weren't any prophetical spirit heads protruding from the slight hump on her back. "I think that'll be all," I said. "We'll be in touch, ma'am."
"Find Ronnie," she said. "You have to find him. He could be sick, hurt..."
I did my best to look reassuring. I nodded. "As soon as we find anything, we'll be in touch."
* * * *
It was nearly eight by the time I dragged myself up three flights of stairs to my apartment. The next place would either need to be on the first floor or have an elevator for sure. I'd have to tell Jacob. There had to be some place in a city of three million that was both easily accessible and not haunted.
Right?
I opened my door and hung my blazer on its peg. A candle burned in my kitchen, which made it look nothing at all like my actual kitchen. You couldn't tell that everything was white, and as cheap as it was humanly possible to manufacture. But there were also shifting shadows everywhere. Not good. I flicked on the overhead. It may have totally ruined the ambience, but ambience was something I'd learned to live without.
Jacob came into the kitchen, squinting a little at its brightness. "Are pork chops okay? They might be a little dry."
"I don't care—I'm two hours later than I meant to be. Just don't put any ketchup on them."
Jacob took a foil-covered plate out of the oven. "Ketchup doesn't go very well with rosemary and fennel."
I wasn't quite sure what fennel was, but it sounded fancy.
"Sorry," Jacob said, sliding the plate onto the counter in front of me. "I already ate without you. I wasn't sure how late you'd be."
"Neither was I." I took a bite of pork chop. It might've been a little tough after sitting for two hours, but so what? It was tastier by leaps and bounds than anything I'd be able to produce.
Jacob sat on the stool beside mine and propped his elbow on the countertop, resting his cheek against his knuckles. He could've been modeling for a cologne ad—if the lighting were less severe. "I take it by the look on your face that you haven't found anything," he said.
"Nothing."
"It's pretty ballsy of the two of you to zero in on Adamson and Lopez when Andy Lynch was the last one seen."
At first I thought Jacob was criticizing our approach, but judging by the curve at the corner of his mouth, he was proud of us for not caving in and focusing all our efforts on the guy with connections.
"I think if we find one, we find 'em all. Besides, the NP detectives are all over Lynch's route." I plowed through everything on my plate, figuring
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