Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians Read Free Page A

seem to be any good place for fuzzy dice.
    It was going on three months since Uncle had bolted for parts unknown, leaving the whole kit and caboodle—somehow the place made me think in words like that—in my lap. The winds of change, not to mention an actual color palette, were due to blow through at any moment. Must and dust and gravitas were not my bag. There had to be a way to mod the place up on a budget and still impress the clients. I’d just been too busy to take matters in hand.
    I headed straight for the coffeemaker in the kitchenette off Uncle’s office and busied myself with getting a pot started, psyching myself up to dash my client’s hopes and dreams. It wasn’t that I wussed out over delivering bad news—that was an occupational hazard—more that it was his case that had put me face-to-face with a killer and I was in no mood for an argument over whether or not I’d earned my fee. The retainer was non-refundable, said so right in the contract, but when the chips were down, the haggling would commence and any balances due were hell to collect.
    Five minutes later I was playing Freecell on my computer, not as a stalling technique—perish the thought—just as something to do while I got a bit more caffeine into my system and gathered my thoughts. But my concentration was shot all to hell and after being stumped two games in a row, I had to admit defeat or further blow my statistics. Sighing, I closed down the game and opened my Rolodex.
    Kasim King answered on the very first ring, making me wonder whether Circe’s death had already hit the news or if he was just anxious for her reply.
    “Mr. King?” I asked, just to be sure.
    “Speaking. Ms. Karacis?”
    He’d heard my voice once, two days ago when he hired me. Either he was, as I suspected, waiting for my call or he had a good ear for voices even when distorted over phone lines.
    “That’s me. Have you heard the news yet?”
    A beat, and then, “What news?”
    “Mr. King, I’m afraid I was unable to present your proposal to Ms. Holland. She was killed today.”
    “Killed? She’s dead ?”
    I’d expected dejection, resignation maybe, but not wonder and even, maybe, hope .
    Puzzled, I answered, “Yes, sadly, I can confirm that personally. Would you like me to return your proposal or is there someone else at her company you’d like me to approach?”
    Circe, it was well-known, had clung tightly to the reins of her talent agency, never letting anyone else’s star shine brightly enough to wash out her own, but there’d been rumors recently of a partnership—all very wink, wink, nudge, nudge in the trade magazines Jesus left around the office.  
    “Circe’s dead ?” he repeated, as if still trying to wrap his mind around it. “I’ll be damned. I didn’t know it was even possible.”
    “Mr. King?”
    “Sorry. Sorry, I was just—thinking. Well, I guess that changes everything. No need to return the envelope. Just, I don’t know, burn it. Shred it. Whatever.”
    O-kay , I thought. “There’s one more thing,” I continued, hating to kill the odd relief Circe’s death seemed to have inspired, “since I was on the scene, the police may be interested in the case that brought me there. Unless you want to come forward, I’ll continue to keep things confidential until I’m hit with a warrant.”
    Another beat. “Thanks for the warning. How about I come by and relieve you of that envelope and you do whatever else you have to do?”
    Definite caution there. Curiouser and curiouser. I’d assumed the envelope contained pages from a screenplay or maybe headshots—though given Mr. King’s apparent age and, er, weathered condition, my money was on the former—certainly nothing that needed to be burned, shredded or kept from the police. Maybe King was paranoid, though that wouldn’t explain his strange reaction to Circe’s death. Then there was that odd comment about how he “didn’t know it was possible”. A million questions vied