private-detective

P.I. Cassie Cruise--You don't have to like her, but you damn well better respect her

From Chapter 1:The main rub was the lack of RnR and I burned out. Three years and three stripes later, I ejected from the MP Corps, vowing I'd never do police or criminal investigative work again. Instead, I returned home when I should've learned better.

What was she doing here? Private detectives were for insecure housewives, parents of troubled teens, bent old ladies who'd forgotten where they parked. She was none of the above. She was a sane, stable, capable adult. Yet here she was.Desperate times, and all that.

MacMillian steepled his fingers on the head of his cane. Anticipation rose in his chest. Lena and Cyrus Alan might have an advantage over him when it came to hunting ghosts, but this was where he excelled. This part of the game was all about patterns. He saw patterns. Always had.

It was a dark, dismal afternoon, like they all seem to bethese days, when I got this call. I could hear the rainbattering the windowpane of my office when the phone rang.

Most investigators don't even know what the word means. You stop the cops from using informants and the only crimes they'd ever solve would be those by deranged postal workers who come to work once too often.

A woman could do a lot of crazy things for a pair of fine-looking dimples.

Dash shoved his hands on his hips and looked down into the bowl. __ou gave my fish pink rocks?_ he said as he turned to face her.Joy shrugged. __ didn__ really look at the colour I just grabbed the nearest bag.___t had to be pink?___here__ some blue as well.__e looked into the bowl again. __ot really.__oy couldn__ believe she was having a conversation about pink rocks when the bigger question of what the hell he__ found out about the robberies was still unanswered. __ou think it__ going to turn Ralph gay?_ she asked sweetly. __iven that he__ living his life out solo it__ kind of a moot question, don__ you think?___ou__e right, I think he needs a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend.___ith those rocks? I think he needs Fishtank Barbie in there.___s your masculinity threatened because your fish has pink rocks?__ash folded his arms. __e__ a bloke. He doesn__ do pink.__oy glanced at the bowl. __t works,_ she said. __t...blends.___e__ orange,_ Dash said. __ince when have pink and orange gone together?

You do know I__ not psychic, right?__ash looked down at her. __oy...you do know that normal people don__ see ghosts, right?

There was nothing like the cold, heavy steel of a gun, the soft moan of an appreciative woman or the sharp burn of a good single malt to make a man grateful to be alive. Tonight, with his gun gone and his sex life a wasteland, Dash had to settle for whiskey.

Shouldering the duffel bag with the Marine Corps bulldog, Old Man knocked Jan's photo off the bed table. He turned to stone staring down at the photo. His face then splintered into hurt. Tears seeped into his eyes. He grappled for the nearest bedpost and slumped forward on extended arms. His shoulders jerked and head sagged a little while his heart broke. Old Man cried the mute cry of men of his generation.