Grimoires and Where to Find Them by Raconteur, Honor (ebook reader for laptop .txt) 📕

The bullpen was relatively quiet at this hour—a quiet that wouldn’t keep for long. Niamh and Foster were already at my desk, which was impressive. Or would have been, if they’d looked awake. Foster held his coffee cup to his nose like a fainting lady would smelling salts.

“Late night?” I asked them, not sure why they were so zombie-like this morning.

“RM Seaton’s reworking the wards and security, trying to prevent a repeat of what happened,” Niamh answered with a yawn. “Of course, that meant we had to step in and guard the palace grounds while everyone got into the new positions. We were up most of the night.”

Gerring strolled up to the desk looking more awake than the others, two porcelain mugs in his hands. He took one look at Niamh and offered one to her.

She took it with a pleased little murmur and promptly inhaled half of it.

I had a feeling that mug was meant to be mine. Gerring’s thoughtful that way—he often brought me coffee if we had an early start like today. But I wasn’t about to question him about it. I had a feeling it had been sacrificed to a more noble cause.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’d let you guys go home and sleep some, but we got a break in the case last night.”

Foster unglued his eyes a little further. “You said Walcott turned himself in.”

“I did say that, yes. And that his life was being threatened by a thief.” I waited, but they weren’t connecting the dots. “Did you guys not see my second message?”

“Second message?” they parroted in perfect, blank unison.

“My second message said the thief who threatened Walcott’s life is collecting everything Radman wrote and is likely the thief we’re looking for.”

It took a second longer than it should have for my statement to connect. Then both of them looked abruptly more awake.

“Do we have a name?” Niamh asked with rising excitement.

“We have a name, a description, and an idea of this guy’s favorite stores. I want a sketch artist to sit down with Walcott this morning, see if we can get something useful.” I felt it only fair to warn them. “Walcott described this man as soft-spoken with a common face. I have a feeling he uses different aliases, too, as he’s been stealing books for years without being caught. It might be really hard to lay hands on him.”

This did not deter Niamh. Her eyes sparkled. “Ooh, a challenge. I’m quite keen on that. Let me sit in with the sketch artist. If the thief touched Walcott in any way, I may be able to pick up something of an aura or scent.”

“Sounds good to me. Gerring, you go with, you know how to set this up.”

“Sure.” Gerring swept an arm to the right, indicating the direction Niamh needed to go. “This way, my lady.”

She gave him a little smile before following his lead.

I blinked after them. Was Gerring…flirting? Seriously? I pointed after them and asked Foster in a low voice, “Have I missed something?”

“Don’t know when it started,” Foster admitted, back to sniffing his coffee. “Caught it myself yesterday, after you separated from us and Niamh returned. He’s bending over backwards to be helpful, flirting just enough to say he’s interested without being pushy. Niamh’s harder to read. I can’t tell if she’s interested or not.”

“If she hasn’t shut him down, she’s enjoying the attention.” So that was Gerring’s type, huh? Tall, blonde, and dangerous. Interesting. “Well. While they’re doing that, we have two things to do. First, Walcott has given me his attorney’s name and number. We need to call and let him know his client is here, arrange for him to come in.”

Foster nodded, then finally drank some of his coffee. “Second thing?”

“We report to our prosecutor’s office that we have a case for them. I wrote down a quick confession for Walcott last night, which he signed, so we have it on file. But they need more particulars in order to do anything with the case, which means paperwork on our end. Why don’t you sit, review the confession so you’re caught up to speed. I’ll call the attorney and then walk you through how to set up a case for the prosecutor’s office.”

Foster seemed agreeable to this plan and promptly sat in my visitor’s chair. I dug out the file and handed it to him. His eyes weren’t crossing as he opened it, at least.

Being sleep-deprived really did a number on the brain. I cut him some slack as I made the call.

The attorney’s secretary sounded put out that one of their clients would dare confess to a policeman without consulting their office first. Which, granted, in their eyes would be stupid. But desperate people did desperate things. At any rate, she agreed to send someone over promptly. My duty done, I hung up and then went searching for the right forms, as Foster was still reading.

Our file room was kept rigidly neat, and it always looked a little like an apothecary to me. There were slender drawers that ran from floor to ceiling, each with their own blank forms. It was still an odd sight for me, I’ll tell you. I was used to pulling up the right form online, or out of a shared drive, and then typing it all in. Here, I had to physically find the right form before loading it into a typewriter and making sure everything lined up right.

Ah, computers, how I missed thee. At least at work.

It pleased me beyond saying that at least I now had a laptop at home.

Forms gathered, I turned to leave, only to hear my pad go off with an insistent ring. Oh no, now what? I pulled it out, saw Sherard’s name, and prayed he was in a fine mood this morning after being up most of the night. I wasn’t sure if I wanted something else to have gone wrong, even if it meant a break in our