“and his hand groped for the snooze button, then stopped as he remembered: Thursday—one day less. Usually, the faint click of the radio woke him to turn off the station before his mind was invaded by the insistent drawling voice of the afternoon disk jockey with its heavy struggle to be witty, persuasive, and hip. There were better radio stations, but none that woke him more quickly; and when two minutes of that voice failed its duty, the buzzer sounded. Today’s was third-degree weariness, and h...e began to think that the eight-to-four shift next month would seem like a vacation. Maybe Ross was right about letting the case work itself out. For the night shift, anyway. His hand slid over the pillow with its lingering spot of warmth. To hell with Ross—cases didn’t work themselves out; someone had to work them. He stumped into the kitchen to start the pot of coffee and chop onions and sausage for a Marine Corps omelette. While he ate, he laid out the four hours left in the normal working day: first, Crowell’s last known job—the modeling agency; then, the Botanic Gardens—that damned key, and now a brochure that said she might have visited it while she was alive.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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