The Lunatic Café by Laurell K. Hamilton

By Laurell K. Hamilton

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It was dark. " Craig glanced up from his computer keyboard. He has short, baby-fine brown hair. Round glasses to match a round face. He's slender and taller than I am, but then who isn't? He's in his twenties with a wife and two babies. "Mr. " "It figures," I said. " I shook my head. " "I don't know, Anita. " "Find some time, Craig. " "You're mad," he said. "You bet. Find the time. " "Anita," he said with a grin, as if I were teasing. I left him riffling through the appointment book trying to squeeze me somewhere.

It was getting embarrassing. " He didn't ask what took so long. Dolph isn't big on extraneous questions. He gave the directions again. I read them back to him to be sure I had them right. I did. " I'm usually the last expert to be called in. After the victim has been photographed, videotaped, poked, prodded, etc ... After I come, everyone gets to go home, or at least leave the murder scene. People were not going to like cooling their heels for two hours. "I called you as soon as I figured out nothing human did it.

My hands were shoved into the coat pockets, arms huddling the cloth around me. I didn't wear gloves. I've never been comfortable shooting with gloves on. The gun is a part of my hand. Cloth shouldn't interfere. I ran across the street in my high-heeled pumps, careful on the frosty pavement. The sidewalk was cracked, with huge sections broken out of it, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. The boarded-up buildings were as dilapidated as the sidewalk. I'd missed the crowd, being nearly late, so I had the shattered street to myself.

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