Abercrombie v. Deegan to the police.”
O’Shea was flipping through the file while I talked. A frown gathered between his upswept brows. “It does seem this hound had a temper, and he wasn’t real happy with the missus filing for divorce.”
“You’ll check for me?”
He closed the file and tossed it across the room. Somehow the papers stayed inside and, even though the edges of the folder flapped like a hurt bird’s wings, it still landed neatly in the center of his desk.
“Sure. This should be an easy one. I’ll go to the husband’s address and see if he answers the door. If he does, we’ll know he’s not a smear on the top of an elevator. Just tell your assistant to set up a billing file for this case.”
“You’re not on retainer?” I asked.
“I am, but the firm breaks out my hours between the various cases so they can ding the clients for my services.”
“Right, of course, duh. I should have known that.”
“Why would you? And besides, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look exhausted.”
“I am, a bit. I didn’t have lunch today, and the blood sugar spike from a pastry mid-afternoon has definitely faded.”
“Then we should go get some dinner.”
O’Shea stood and pulled his sports jacket and hat off the wooden coatrack in the corner.
My unwary tongue took control. “You really are channeling Dashiell Hammett, aren’t you?”
He flashed me a grin. “The dame walked into my office carrying a file. I knew she and it were going to be trouble.…” He held the door for me.
* * *
O’Shea picked a Chinese restaurant within walking distance of his office. Its linoleum floor, utilitarian metal and plastic tables, and sturdy metal chairs gave it all the ambiance of a bus station. The only attempt at decor consisted of shell paintings of goddesses riding on waves, scholarly old men with long beards sitting in bamboo forests, and panda bears.
“Do you mind if I order?” the detective asked. “I eat here a lot, and I know what’s good. Any allergies?”
I blinked at him for a moment, then realized the question was directed at me. “No, just no chicken feet, please, and not too spicy.”
“Wimp.”
“Hey, I’m an East Coast girl.”
“And salsa is the most popular condiment in America now. Where have you been?”
“Growing up in a vampire household,” I replied.
“Oh. Yeah, probably not a lot of adventuresome cooking going on there.”
The older woman behind the cash register glared at a teenage boy dressed in jeans and a T-shirt celebrating some grunge band. Prodded by the look, he slouched over and grunted, “You ready?”
“Yes.” O’Shea rattled off the order, and the waiter went away.
“Wow, that seems like a lot of food.”
“We’ll split the leftovers,” he said.
“I like this plan.”
The first things out of the kitchen were soup dumplings. O’Shea had to show me how to hold them in one of the short, sharply bent soup spoons and bite in a way that didn’t send hot soup down the front of my blouse. They were wonderful, and all I could manage were grunting sounds of pleasure as I slurped up soup and chewed at the doughy shell of the dumplings.
While we waited for the main course, O’Shea leaned back in his chair and studied me. “So, tell me about yourself.”
“Not much to tell. Born in Rhode Island. Dad’s a businessman; he owns a big vending machine company. Mom’s…” I paused, struggling to find a way to describe my mother that wouldn’t sound like the stereotypical mother/daughter relationship. “A housewife. She was my father’s secretary, and she married him.”
“You make it sound like he didn’t have a choice.”
“He didn’t.” I flashed him a smile. “I have a younger brother.”
“So, how did you end up fostered?” O’Shea asked as he filled my cup with tea. The delicate aroma of jasmine wafted up from the cup.
“My dad’s business connections. Vampires like to make money. My dad knows how to make
O’Shea was flipping through the file while I talked. A frown gathered between his upswept brows. “It does seem this hound had a temper, and he wasn’t real happy with the missus filing for divorce.”
“You’ll check for me?”
He closed the file and tossed it across the room. Somehow the papers stayed inside and, even though the edges of the folder flapped like a hurt bird’s wings, it still landed neatly in the center of his desk.
“Sure. This should be an easy one. I’ll go to the husband’s address and see if he answers the door. If he does, we’ll know he’s not a smear on the top of an elevator. Just tell your assistant to set up a billing file for this case.”
“You’re not on retainer?” I asked.
“I am, but the firm breaks out my hours between the various cases so they can ding the clients for my services.”
“Right, of course, duh. I should have known that.”
“Why would you? And besides, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look exhausted.”
“I am, a bit. I didn’t have lunch today, and the blood sugar spike from a pastry mid-afternoon has definitely faded.”
“Then we should go get some dinner.”
O’Shea stood and pulled his sports jacket and hat off the wooden coatrack in the corner.
My unwary tongue took control. “You really are channeling Dashiell Hammett, aren’t you?”
He flashed me a grin. “The dame walked into my office carrying a file. I knew she and it were going to be trouble.…” He held the door for me.
* * *
O’Shea picked a Chinese restaurant within walking distance of his office. Its linoleum floor, utilitarian metal and plastic tables, and sturdy metal chairs gave it all the ambiance of a bus station. The only attempt at decor consisted of shell paintings of goddesses riding on waves, scholarly old men with long beards sitting in bamboo forests, and panda bears.
“Do you mind if I order?” the detective asked. “I eat here a lot, and I know what’s good. Any allergies?”
I blinked at him for a moment, then realized the question was directed at me. “No, just no chicken feet, please, and not too spicy.”
“Wimp.”
“Hey, I’m an East Coast girl.”
“And salsa is the most popular condiment in America now. Where have you been?”
“Growing up in a vampire household,” I replied.
“Oh. Yeah, probably not a lot of adventuresome cooking going on there.”
The older woman behind the cash register glared at a teenage boy dressed in jeans and a T-shirt celebrating some grunge band. Prodded by the look, he slouched over and grunted, “You ready?”
“Yes.” O’Shea rattled off the order, and the waiter went away.
“Wow, that seems like a lot of food.”
“We’ll split the leftovers,” he said.
“I like this plan.”
The first things out of the kitchen were soup dumplings. O’Shea had to show me how to hold them in one of the short, sharply bent soup spoons and bite in a way that didn’t send hot soup down the front of my blouse. They were wonderful, and all I could manage were grunting sounds of pleasure as I slurped up soup and chewed at the doughy shell of the dumplings.
While we waited for the main course, O’Shea leaned back in his chair and studied me. “So, tell me about yourself.”
“Not much to tell. Born in Rhode Island. Dad’s a businessman; he owns a big vending machine company. Mom’s…” I paused, struggling to find a way to describe my mother that wouldn’t sound like the stereotypical mother/daughter relationship. “A housewife. She was my father’s secretary, and she married him.”
“You make it sound like he didn’t have a choice.”
“He didn’t.” I flashed him a smile. “I have a younger brother.”
“So, how did you end up fostered?” O’Shea asked as he filled my cup with tea. The delicate aroma of jasmine wafted up from the cup.
“My dad’s business connections. Vampires like to make money. My dad knows how to make
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