The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) by Brad Magnarella (best business books of all time txt) 📕

So that’s where Snodgrass had gotten the report.

“Ancient mythology and lore, actually. It’s a graduate-level course.” Or was.

Detective Vega gave no sign she’d heard me as she swung south onto Park Row and switched on the siren. Cars honked and edged from her path. She accelerated, knocking past an obstinate taxi. Not even a backward glance.

“How are you with ancient languages?”

“Huh?” When I realized I was white-knuckling the door handle, I relaxed my grip and brought both hands to my cane. “Ancient languages? Not bad. I mean, I’m fluent in a couple, familiar with several others.”

“Good.”

I waited for more, but her dark eyes remained narrowed on the traffic in front of her. It was the same ruthless look she’d fixed on my court-appointed attorney while testifying against me last fall.

Police Plaza disappeared behind us. “Hey, uh, what about my meeting with the probation officer?”

Instead of answering, Detective Vega lowered her window. We were entering the shadow of the barrier that separated the Financial District from the rest of Manhattan. I dipped my head to take in the grim concrete span. Following the Crash, public outrage had fallen on the banking class. Detonating bombs around their buildings had become a popular pastime.

Now Wall Street featured an actual wall again, even if it was located a few blocks north, on Liberty Street. No small irony there.

At an entrance for official vehicles, Detective Vega held up the ID that dangled around her neck. Armored guards in shield sunglasses looked from her to me, then motioned us through with assault rifles. The skyscraper-lined corridors beyond were strangely silent.

“There’s been a murder at St. Martin’s,” Detective Vega said.

I stiffened. “The cathedral?” Sited on a fount of ley energy, it was the oldest and among the most powerful places of worship in the city.

“No, the Caribbean island,” she replied, giving me a dry look. And you’re a professor? it seemed to ask. I’d gotten that look a few times. “I’m not going into details other than to say the rector’s body was found in the church sacristy this morning. There was some writing at the scene our language people couldn’t make sense of. They’re thinking it’s ancient.”

Well, that explained things. “And you want to see if I can decipher it?”

“Boy, you’re sharp.”

“What are you offering?”

When her eyebrows pressed together, I remembered how quick she was to anger. “Excuse me?” she challenged.

“You’re contracting my services, right? Shouldn’t there be a fee or something?”

While it was true I could use the extra money, this was about getting some things straight. First, probation or not, I wasn’t hers to muscle around. I had enough going on in my own life at the moment. Second, we weren’t friends. I didn’t owe her any kindnesses. Especially since she was the reason I was about to get drop-kicked from Midtown College. If she wanted her back scratched, she was damn sure going to run her nails up and down mine.

Hmm. Probably could have phrased that better.

“Your fee,” she said evenly, “is me not collaring your ass for failure to show. How’s that sound?”

I shook my head against the rest. “Nice try.”

“What?”

“You didn’t know I was going to be late. You parked with a view of the checkpoint well before I showed up. Forty minutes, I’m guessing.” I nodded toward the hood. “Engine was cold.”

She glanced over as though taking some measure of me.

While it was true wizards possessed an enhanced awareness, catching subtleties that most overlooked, I was presently blowing an ass-load of smoke. I had no idea what temperature the engine had been.

“It doesn’t change the fact you were late,” she said.

She’d bought the bluff, but I could see she wasn’t going to budge on her position.

“Well, what were you preparing to offer?” I asked.

She blinked twice quickly. A tell.

“All right,” I said, drumming my fingers over my cane as I thought aloud. “You had no intention of paying me. I’m on probation, a criminal. I know how that would look—even inside the NYPD. I get it. So, I’m guessing it was some kind of commutation of my sentence?”

Another rapid blink.

“A year?” I pressed, my heart already accelerating at the possibility. A year would take care of the second half of my probation. I’d be a free man. And if, come Monday’s hearing, I was no longer under the NYPD’s thumb, I might actually have a crack at saving my job.

“A month,” Detective Vega countered sharply.

My hope shattered like a clay pigeon. I could see in her set expression she wasn’t going to let herself be talked into a full year. She already hated that I’d made her feel transparent. My mistake, I realized now.

We were slowing past a police cordon and into a mayhem of squad cars that fronted St. Martin’s. Detective Vega knifed into a too-small space and twisted to look me full in the face.

“If whatever information you provide leads to an arrest,” she said, “I’ll consider upping it to six.”

I understood some wizards could peer into souls. It wasn’t a gift I possessed—or even desired, for that matter—but I had developed a decent ability to read people. And what I saw beyond the façade of Detective Vega’s hard eyes was the bone-weary fatigue of a detective whose resources were being stripped at the same time murders in the city were soaring. She needed all the breaks she could get.

“A year,” I tried again.

“Six months.”

I glimpsed something else, but before it took on contours, Vega turned and banged her door into the squad car beside ours. Conversation over.

After edging out, she paced toward an approaching officer who looked to be managing the outdoor scene. When she pointed back in my direction, I squeezed out too, though with less property damage. I stood with my cane, peering at the cathedral’s stately bronze doors, then up the soaring Gothic spire shimmering with ley energy. Back down, to the right, tombstones stood in the gated churchyard I used to play in. I had attended