His Hands Were Quiet by P.D. Workman

Author:P.D. Workman [Workman, P.D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: P.D. Workman

15

He was headed back to his car when he saw the woman standing a few feet outside the doors, a cigarette between her fingers. Dark hair pulled into a smooth, sleek ponytail. Young and pretty with perfectly-applied makeup. A common sight. Except for the one detail that Zachary’s shutter-quick eyes immediately took in. There was no smoke coming from her cigarette.

He saw the way that her head turned slightly in his direction when he exited the building. He slowed a little, waiting to see whether she was going to confront him, but she didn’t. Would she follow him to his car? Had she already planted a bomb or tracking device on his car and stayed to watch the fun?

Zachary measured the distance from the woman not smoking to the protesters. Was she one of them? Camouflaged by her nicotine habit so that she could get right up to the building when security was supposed to be keeping the protesters back fifty feet, at the property line? But she didn’t look over at them. Didn’t flash them any sign or signal.

Zachary stopped and patted his pockets as if he were looking for smokes of his own. “Do you have another one?” he asked, giving up on finding anything. “I’m trying to give it up by not carrying them with me, but… after this place… I need a hit.”

She looked nervous about Zachary talking to her, but she complied, pulling out her own pack of cigarettes and handing one to Zachary.

“You’re right,” she said cautiously. “It’s… quite the place.”

She didn’t stare at his black eye or ask him what had happened, which suggested she already knew. Zachary held the cigarette she had handed him and didn’t light it up or ask her for a light. They both stood there with their unlit cigarettes. Her face started to get pink. She was very attractive. Very young. It was probably her first job out of college.

“Alright!” She blew up, as if he’d been interrogating her. “You caught me. I wasn’t out here to smoke, I was out here to get a chance to talk to you.”

“Here I am,” Zachary said, giving her a weak smile and handing the cigarette back to her. “What did you want to say?”

“Someone said that you’re here to investigate Quentin Thatcher’s death.”

“They would be right.”

“You don’t believe it was suicide?”

“Suicide is still a possibility,” Zachary said. “If you think he could actually form the intent to kill himself. What do you think?”

She put both of the cigarettes back into the pack, which then appeared to be full. He didn’t smell stale smoke on her and wondered if she had bought the cigarettes just for the ruse.

“I don’t know. I’m no expert in suicide.”

“Okay. How well did you know Quentin?”

“I worked with him a few times. Just a few. I didn’t know him well.”

“And you don’t know if he could have killed himself?”

“I suppose he could have. Accidentally or intentionally, I don’t know. He was a sensory-seeker.”

Zachary rubbed the back of his neck.

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