Collecting the Dead: A Novel by Spencer Kope

Author:Spencer Kope [Kope, Spencer]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Thriller, Mystery, Suspense
ISBN: 1250072875
Amazon: B01827IQBW
Goodreads: 27840754
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2016-06-21T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

June 29, 12:07 P.M.

Tami pokes her head into the conference room and opens her mouth to speak, only to become transfixed by my fingers as they sort out the water chestnuts from a bowl of chicken stir-fry. “That’s the best part, you know,” she says after a second.

“Not in my book,” I reply, glancing up only briefly. “They have the texture of raw potato and no flavor to speak of. Some starving person ate one five thousand years ago and didn’t die of it, so now we’re stuck with them as accepted cuisine. It’s the same thing with snails, balut, and scores of other foods I don’t care to think about while I’m eating.”

“Balut?”

I look up from my stir-fry grudgingly. Didn’t I just say it’s something I don’t care to think about while I’m eating? “It’s a duck embryo that’s boiled alive in its shell and then eaten, starting with the broth around the embryo, which is sipped from the egg before peeling.”

Tami half gags. “That’s disgusting!”

“As I said.” My fingers are back to work on the water chestnuts.

In my peripheral vision I see her watching me, and then she slowly shakes her head. “I still say you’re missing the best part.”

“Not—in—my—book,” I say, plucking a disgusting morsel with each word. The last one I toss in her direction. Instead of dodging it, she catches it and pops it into her mouth.

As the receptionist for the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office, Tami’s no stranger to odd behavior; she sees it every day … and not just from deputies and the occasional FBI tracker. To the public, she’s the face of the sheriff’s office; to the deputies, she’s a chokepoint: a filter.

She’s like an old 1940s switchboard operator, but instead of phones, she plugs people into the right slot. Sex offenders go to a Sex Crimes detective for registration, concealed firearms applicants are directed to the Records Division for fingerprinting and application submission, witnesses are handed off to detectives, those waiting for a polygraph sweat it out in a lobby chair until the examiner is ready for them, victims queue up to see the station deputy, packages are received, and Hershey’s Kisses are handed out to anyone walking by with a need for chocolate.

Tami has the place wired, and with a willow-tree waist, black hair, and a smoky tan, she has the looks to match her natural talent and charisma.

“There’s a guy in the lobby who says he needs to talk to the FBI. He wouldn’t give me any details but said it’s about Alison Lister.”

“Another psychic?” I ask, though it’s really not a question. “Maybe a mental?” I add, then pause and look up, not at her, but at the wall directly in front of me, as if it holds some secret revelation. “Or better yet,” I muse, “a twice-convicted felon looking to get his charges dropped for some half-baked information? Yeah, I like that. Please let it be a half-baked felon,” I say, turning toward Tami.

“Wow!” she snorts. “And I thought I was jaded.

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