you think you could order me a glass of milk?”
Magozzi was trying not to smile, because it didn’t seem appropriate, seeing that she’d just told him serial killers weren’t the worst thing in life. “Do not drink any more of that beer. Do not get drunk. When I get back, I want to know what’s worse than serial killers using the Internet.”
She gave him a silly little smile and picked up her hamburger.
Big surprise. Irish pubs did not serve milk. He had to go to the convenience store at the end of the block and then race back before Miss Psychiatrist FBI agent/profiler passed out in the booth. He slammed down a gallon of skim.
“That’s really big.” Her plate was almost empty, and she looked almost normal.
“I wanted one of those little cartons you used to get in grade school. Profiteering money-hungry bastards don’t carry them. Don’t even carry quarts, or half gallons. You want milk, you lay down your pension.”
“Sorry. I’ll buy your dinner. Which is now cold and greasy.”
“Thank you for the review.”
She pushed away her plate with one finger and smiled. “We’re talking about terrible things, and this is very unprofessional, but I want you to know I’m actually having a nice time tonight, which was totally unexpected, and really appreciated.”
Magozzi smiled and took a bite of his burger. It was cold and greasy and fabulous. “What’s in this?” he asked the exasperated waitress as she dodged drunken dancers and passed their table.
“A dead animal. What do you think?”
Chelsea Thomas, should-have-been exotic dancer, watched him dig in. “Do you have any women friends, Detective?”
He shook his head while he chewed. “Never have. I have women I love, and women I lust after.”
“Do you lust after the woman you love?”
“I do.”
She picked up her last onion ring and held it up to the light like a jewel. “That’s just about as perfect as it gets, isn’t it? Tell me about her.”
Magozzi put his burger down on the plate and stared at it. This was just about the strangest evening he’d ever spent in his life, which was saying something when you were a homicide cop. Maybe it was the beer or the mood or the fact that they were sitting at a table in a bar with a gallon of milk between them, but whatever it was, he opened his mouth and Grace MacBride fell out. He told her everything; things he’d never thought aloud to himself, let alone voiced to anyone else. She listened to every word, drinking it in like it was some kind of magic elixir, and when he was finished, and embarrassed, she did a man thing. She ignored all the intimate feelings he had shared as if they had never happened, and changed the subject.
“This is what I’m really afraid is happening, Detective.”
THE ROOM WAS DARK except for the halogen puddles that spilled down onto the worktable, illuminating two pairs of gloved hands that cast eerie, mesmerizing shadows on the wall as they carefully poured viscous liquid into the containers and lined them up in the center of the table—none of them touching, all of them far from the edge. Such a simple task, but the first part had taken over an hour.
All the practice runs had been helpful, but essentially worthless. This time it was the real thing, and nerves crept into the equation, making hands shake and hearts beat faster.
When the last container was sealed, they both stepped back from the table a few steps and just breathed, letting the nerves settle before part two.
They’d prepared the outer packagings first, and those were all waiting on the floor with their tops open like hungry baby birds. The interior shields were secure, meticulously placed and anchored.
Lowering the inner containers was slow, methodical, and nerve-wracking. A drop of sweat loaded with DNA fell and spread on one of the packages. It would leave a telltale watermark, and that package was immediately discarded and replaced with a spare. They’d thought of everything,
Magozzi was trying not to smile, because it didn’t seem appropriate, seeing that she’d just told him serial killers weren’t the worst thing in life. “Do not drink any more of that beer. Do not get drunk. When I get back, I want to know what’s worse than serial killers using the Internet.”
She gave him a silly little smile and picked up her hamburger.
Big surprise. Irish pubs did not serve milk. He had to go to the convenience store at the end of the block and then race back before Miss Psychiatrist FBI agent/profiler passed out in the booth. He slammed down a gallon of skim.
“That’s really big.” Her plate was almost empty, and she looked almost normal.
“I wanted one of those little cartons you used to get in grade school. Profiteering money-hungry bastards don’t carry them. Don’t even carry quarts, or half gallons. You want milk, you lay down your pension.”
“Sorry. I’ll buy your dinner. Which is now cold and greasy.”
“Thank you for the review.”
She pushed away her plate with one finger and smiled. “We’re talking about terrible things, and this is very unprofessional, but I want you to know I’m actually having a nice time tonight, which was totally unexpected, and really appreciated.”
Magozzi smiled and took a bite of his burger. It was cold and greasy and fabulous. “What’s in this?” he asked the exasperated waitress as she dodged drunken dancers and passed their table.
“A dead animal. What do you think?”
Chelsea Thomas, should-have-been exotic dancer, watched him dig in. “Do you have any women friends, Detective?”
He shook his head while he chewed. “Never have. I have women I love, and women I lust after.”
“Do you lust after the woman you love?”
“I do.”
She picked up her last onion ring and held it up to the light like a jewel. “That’s just about as perfect as it gets, isn’t it? Tell me about her.”
Magozzi put his burger down on the plate and stared at it. This was just about the strangest evening he’d ever spent in his life, which was saying something when you were a homicide cop. Maybe it was the beer or the mood or the fact that they were sitting at a table in a bar with a gallon of milk between them, but whatever it was, he opened his mouth and Grace MacBride fell out. He told her everything; things he’d never thought aloud to himself, let alone voiced to anyone else. She listened to every word, drinking it in like it was some kind of magic elixir, and when he was finished, and embarrassed, she did a man thing. She ignored all the intimate feelings he had shared as if they had never happened, and changed the subject.
“This is what I’m really afraid is happening, Detective.”
THE ROOM WAS DARK except for the halogen puddles that spilled down onto the worktable, illuminating two pairs of gloved hands that cast eerie, mesmerizing shadows on the wall as they carefully poured viscous liquid into the containers and lined them up in the center of the table—none of them touching, all of them far from the edge. Such a simple task, but the first part had taken over an hour.
All the practice runs had been helpful, but essentially worthless. This time it was the real thing, and nerves crept into the equation, making hands shake and hearts beat faster.
When the last container was sealed, they both stepped back from the table a few steps and just breathed, letting the nerves settle before part two.
They’d prepared the outer packagings first, and those were all waiting on the floor with their tops open like hungry baby birds. The interior shields were secure, meticulously placed and anchored.
Lowering the inner containers was slow, methodical, and nerve-wracking. A drop of sweat loaded with DNA fell and spread on one of the packages. It would leave a telltale watermark, and that package was immediately discarded and replaced with a spare. They’d thought of everything,
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