just by being exposed to air or something. For once in my life, I wasn’t going to take the risk.
I’d just moved my hand away from the demon file and pulled the next one on my list when Sharon came out of the back rooms, Nick half a step behind her. She was as immaculate as ever, Nick was rumpled and scrawny as ever, and yet they shared the exact same look of annoyance. Whatever they’d gotten on their assignment, it wasn’t open and shut.
“Bad scene?” I asked, putting the file down.
“Useless scene,” Sharon said, dropping herself onto the sofa next to Pietr. “The place was trashed, no sign of entry or exit, no way any of the three people in the house could have done it, even if they had cause, and while the place was wrecked, there were only a handful of things actually taken, according to the owner. He’s dead set on it being a Retriever, mainly I think because that makes him feel important, that someone hired a pro. My bet is some Talent with a grudge, and most we’d be able to get them for would be breaking and entering.”
“What she’s really pissed about,” Nicky said, “is that the client must lie for a living. Even I could tell he was full of shit, but she couldn’t pinpoint anything specific to call him on.”
“What does he do?” I asked, prepared to hear banker, or lawyer, or CEO of a pharmaceutical company.
“Owns a national rental car franchise,” she said. “I wouldn’t rent from them even if I knew how to drive.”
Huh. “What did Venec say?” I asked. I knew he was lurking in the back office; even with my walls up I could feel him, the way you feel a storm coming, the static in the air almost a solid, living thing. He must have just finished debriefing them.
“He told us that lack of trace was a roadblock not a disaster, the client was probably an ass but he was still the client. And to get the hell out of the office, clear our brains, and let the investigation wait until the morning.” Sharon had an odd look on her face, and the more I looked the less it seemed like annoyance, and more like she’d bitten into what she thought was a lemon and gotten a peach, instead. “I don’t think he’s taking this case seriously.”
Nifty pointed out the logic-fail in that. “Venec takes everything seriously.”
Sharon rubbed at her face, and nodded. “Yeah, I know. I just… The client’s an idiot, the house is trashed but nothing of serious value was taken…. I’m not sure I’m taking it seriously, either.”
Sharon, like Venec, took everything seriously. I was starting to wonder about this case. It was almost enough to be thankful for a floater. Almost.
“Screw it.”
I looked over at Pietr, who had spoken far louder than his norm. “It’s not like we’re getting anywhere with this, either.” He scowled at our piles of so-far-useless paperwork. “Any trace there might have been was washed by the river. You know it, I know it, even the cop knew it. We could stare at files all night and get nowhere, and it’s not like the NYPD will appreciate our exhaustion.”
We dealt with the weird shit in an exchange of favors, keeping the unspoken lines of communication open, but nobody ever took formal notice of anything; he was right.
“And it’s not like the stiff’s in any rush. So I say screw it. We have birthdays to celebrate, anyway.”
“We do?” That was news to me; we’d just celebrated Sharon’s, and I couldn’t think of anyone else….
Pietr closed his own file, and stood up. “Someone, somewhere, is being born. That calls for a drink.”
It was tough to argue with that logic. So we didn’t.
The after-work crowds at Printer’s Devil, down by Port Authority terminal, was the usual mix of depressed-looking newspaper geeks and overly cheerful tourists who’d gotten lost off Times Square. I couldn’t remember why we kept coming here, except for the fact that it wasn’t convenient to anyone’s place, and therefore was neutral ground. Also, they made the best damn spicy empanadas north of Miami.
We’d gotten one of the high narrow tables in the back and crowded around it. With six of us, there was barely enough room for our drinks and elbows, but it beat the hell out of trying to stand in that crowd. Nick, on his second mojito, was waving his arms, retelling a story that we’d all heard three times already. “I swear, I thought the conductor was going to blow something out his ear. And Lou’s sitting there, looking at him…”
Lou rolled her eyes, not saying anything. She was still figuring out how to fit in with us, but when you get razzed by Nick you can’t really get annoyed, because he takes it so cheerfully when the tables are turned.
But it was maybe time to step in. “Oh, come on, that one wasn’t her fault,” I said.
“Yeah, but she thought it was!”
Nick cracked up as he delivered the line, and even Lou smiled a little. He was right; that had been what made it so funny.
We were all still wound up, but it wasn’t quite so bad. Venec and Stosser had meant to make us efficient when they molded the pack, but it had also created a sort of safety zone. We knew the kind of shit we’d seen; we didn’t have to talk about it, to explain why we needed distraction.
“Don’t turn around, you’ve got an admirer,” Pietr said, leaning across the narrow table to shout in…my ear? Nifty’s? I couldn’t tell. So, of course, we both looked.
Speaking of distraction. Contrary to some people’s wet dream of bisexuality, I didn’t drool over everything that breathed. Pietr, yes. Venec, yes, even without the Merge. Sharon had piqued my interest briefly, but Nick, Nifty, and Stosser weren’t my type either physically or emotionally. This woman, on the other hand….
She looked right back at me, and smiled, the kind of smile I recognized: Hi, it said. Will you smile back at me?
So I did. She was a redhead, the kind of shaggy strawberry that only comes naturally or with a lot of money, and her eyes were wide-set and light-colored, and she had a body that probably wouldn’t raise the pulse of any red-blooded American male, unless he recognized the lean and agile muscles flexing as she walked. Toward me. There was a god, and she was gracious.
“Once again, Bonnie scores, and the rest of us strike out,” I heard Nifty mutter, and I spared him a consoling pat on the hand. “You do all right for yourself, guy. But this one seems to be more about the girl parts.”
“I’m allll about the girl parts,” Nick said in a singsong falsetto, picking up the tail end of our conversation. I wasn’t looking at him, but from the solid whap-noise, I was guessing that someone—probably Sharon—had just slapped him upside the head to shut him up before my visitor made it to our table.
“Hi.” She had an ordinary but pleasant voice, blandly Northeast, and her smile was even nicer up close.
“Hi. I’m Bonnie.” I slid off my chair to move away from my usually-but-not-always-discreet coworkers, and tilted my head to better look at my new friend. She was taller than me, and her eyes were definitely hazel-green and very pretty.
“Joan.” She gave me her hand, and it was smooth and soft and strong, and…
I didn’t feel anything. Not even the shiver of anticipation that usually came when someone gave me that kind of once-over.
Oh, damn it. Just, damn it.
It wasn’t that I was in a guy-phase, either. I’d gotten hit on last week by a very nice example of my type, slightly scruffy and broad-shouldered, and enough smarts to balance out the bad-boy looks…and I’d smiled and felt nothing other than a passing admiration for the package.
Even my recent off-work time with Pietr had been about release and comfort, not the sort of enjoyable, mutual passion I was used to feeling. I was…not dead inside, but rather unnervingly calm. Like a very still lake, when you’re used to an ocean.
I’d liked to have