Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Again, though, the guy was different, and she wasn’t sure if it was good different or not-so-good different. Whatever he was, he was trying very hard to size her up, and she had this feeling he was getting at least some of it right.
Apparently done assessing her, he picked up his orange juice and took a long drink, draining it and setting it back down. She noticed a white scar on the top of his hand, right in the middle.
“So, Agent Mars, tell me about you. Lieutenant Byrd said you worked at a field office? Where exactly?”
His eyes remained on his plate. “Pleasant Hill. And call me Ambrose.”
She lifted her chin. “Are you from Pleasant Hill?”
He lifted his fork again and resumed picking through the cup of fruit. “No. San Francisco, born and raised. But I moved out of the city ten years ago to take a job as a correctional officer. I did that for a couple of years, and then applied to the FBI. When I graduated, I wanted to come back to the Bay Area, and so I put in a request and was sent to the field office in Pleasant Hill. I’ve been there for several years now.”
That was a lot of back-and-forth, but two things stood out to Lennon. One, he was a local, too, and for some odd reason, even though there were almost a million residents in San Francisco, she was surprised she’d never come across him. Which made no sense at all. So she moved that aside, on to the second thing that had caught her attention. “You started your career as a correctional officer?”
“Yeah.”
Her respect notched up, even if she didn’t necessarily want it to. There weren’t too many more pressure-filled jobs than that, where you had to be on constant alert. She’d only been somewhat convinced he’d noticed her enter the diner before, but she was certain of it now. You had to be observant—to say the least—if you wanted to survive in that environment. “That had to have been rough.”
Ambrose shrugged and tilted his head. She waited for him to provide more details, but in the end, he simply put a strawberry in his mouth and looked into the distance as he chewed. Ambrose set his fork down. “So, since you’re here, asking questions, you obviously weren’t successful in shaking me.”
She almost felt embarrassed. Almost. He’d obviously sensed her initial dislike or . . . suspicion? It wasn’t like he’d actually done anything wrong. But if he hadn’t just reminded her about the weird vibes he put off, she might have blushed. Instead, she shrugged. “No. I was unsuccessful in shaking you. I guess I’m stuck with you. For now.”
Ambrose smiled, but there was no cockiness in it. No gloating, or even annoyance that she obviously was far from overjoyed to have been partnered up with him. There was almost an understanding in it, like he didn’t blame her for trying to get rid of him.
Which in itself was odd. Most people sought to make a good first impression. They wanted to be liked, or at least welcomed. Most people would take offense at being dumped right off the bat—or at minimum the attempt.
Maybe he was only here to make a report about the unknown drug found at three murder scenes and the possibility of a serial killer in San Francisco. Beyond that, it was anyone’s guess at the moment if Ambrose could even—professionally speaking—handle the mean streets of the city. Some days she barely could, and she carried this vague assumption that she’d put her guilt aside and transfer somewhere else sooner or later. Somewhere with less crime and more emotional stability. Bored, like Tommy, but able to sleep at night without reliving visions of the constant depravity city cops were confronted with. And that wouldn’t really be giving up, would it? She’d still be doing the job, even if she was only doing accident reports and responding to minor thefts?
Ambrose signaled the waitress for the check. “Since you’re stuck with me for now,” he said, “should we go see what the medical examiner has to say about the three latest victims?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Jett”
Episode from podcast The Fringe
Host of podcast, Jamal Whitaker
“Hello, welcome to The Fringe. Jett.”
The young man nods and takes a drag of his half-smoked cigarette before leaning forward and putting it out in the ashtray on the coffee table in front of him. “Yeah. Jett or J.D. Some people call me J.D.” His gaze darts around. “We don’t gotta give last names here, right?”
“No, of course not. Did you grow up in San Francisco, Jett?”
“Nah.” Jett shifts. His obvious lack of health—sallow skin marked with sores, severely underweight—makes his features look droopy and gives him an almost cartoonish expression of sadness. Even so, it’s obvious he’d be a good-looking guy if he wasn’t so haggard. “I grew up in Kentucky.”