Crazy in the Blood (Latter-Day Olympians) Read Free Page A

mind’s eye.
    No one had hired me to investigate. No doubt Rosen and Holloway would be happier if I didn’t, but I needed something to take my mind off my tremors and a new case would be just the thing. Plus, I couldn’t not help, just as I couldn’t unsee what I’d seen.
    Research was definitely in order, and that meant the office. My old place might not have had enough furniture for a conversational grouping, but at least it’d had DSL. Lau’s place had bupkis, unless you considered dial-up, which I didn’t. She didn’t even have decent Wi-Fi in her area that I could piggyback onto.  
    My hands shook as I used the arms of the chair to help myself up. Only through sheer force of will had I kept them relatively steady throughout the interview with the terrible twosome, but I would not consider that the weakness was getting worse. I was also not thinking about pink elephants, Elvis sightings or that growing feeling of need, pining for something no multivitamin was going to supply. It would pass. Ambrosia addiction had been known to kill mere mortals, but I had it on good authority that I wasn’t…or not entirely. So, I wasn’t thinking about withdrawal or the sexy god who’d dosed me with the stuff in the attempt to save my life. First one’s free, little girl .
    Nope, I was Cleopatra, Queen of Denial.
    I spared one more wistful thought for the beach before changing into black slacks, sandals and a teal top—business casual on the off chance a client wandered into the office while I was there. I’d take as many distractions as I could get.
    On the way I stopped off for a triple shot latte worth every inflated cent. By the time I reached the office, at least I had a reason for the shakes. My stomach was dancing the jitterbug, threatening revolt.  
    The Karacis Investigations office was located in old Hollywood—the part that held classic theatres like the Orpheum and Rialto, many of which had since been turned into discount stores or offices. The buildings were antique, the rooms small and the rent relatively cheap. It was the only reason I could afford to stay. Certainly I wasn’t rolling in the dough. Hollywood stereotypes aside, no one had yet come through my door asking for help finding a Maltese falcon or stolen diamonds and offering to share the award. Yet being the operative word. I lived in hope.
    I rode the creaking elevator up to the third floor rather than take the stairs on shaky legs. At my door with the peeling paint and semi-discreet gold plaque bearing our company name I had to focus to get the key into the lock without further scratching the paint. I’d just made it and was about to turn the knob when something behind the door went thump , loud enough to be heard over the gurgle of my insides. I froze, listening intently, waiting for the sound to repeat to be sure I’d heard anything at all and hadn’t just entered some auditory hallucination phase of withdrawal. But there it was again—the sound of something rubbing against something else. Friction, like of desk drawers poorly fitted or our closet doors sliding on their tracks.
    Someone was in there. Good, well, at least I’d mastered the obvious.
    Quietly, I set down the last of my overpriced coffee and removed the key from the door to get to the canister of pepper spray I kept attached to the chain. I thumbed off the safety, then slowly, silently turned the unlocked knob. As soon as it unlatched, I slammed the door open with my shoulder. The door didn’t bounce back at me, and no one instantly pounced. That didn’t mean the coast was clear.
    Holding my pepper spray like a gun, since my actual weapon was helpfully locked in my desk, I moved through the office. Entryway—empty. No tingle of my god-given early warning system as I approached the coat closet. Still, I chose one side and slid the door back as quickly as it would go. Nothing. I could see to the other side of the equally intruder-free closet. There were only three other