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Here's the scene I'm working on at the moment.
Well, this complicated things. "I was having flashbacks to the Cubist Madonna fiasco—those Spanish gentlemen backing you in a corner while they cursed at you and demanded answers—but this. Holland. Holland? Holland!" Jack snapped her fingers in his face. Tuesdays. Janitorial closets on the first floor were apocalyptic on the best of days, without the scurrying salamanders in droves across the floor—hundreds of the little buggers, apparently they were breeding in the pipes and grates and corners of the building, twisting smoothly around the large mess dashed across the floor, old phone books and tools, a mop and bucket.. And. "I know you're not exactly giddy at the thought of keeping this under wraps along with Shackle's problems, but…" It was a man's skinny, distorted body hung upright, wrapped in telephone cables and cords bolted to the walls. The switchboard was going to be a mess. Limp-tied with bent, awkward limbs and hands hung open like tulips, jaundiced and oddly—
"Armand found him." Holland had apparently recovered his power of speech. Jack winced. The man was spider-webbed by the cables, but death still held on with fingernails. The pulverized neck! And the face, so blotchy. "Jack, I can't. You're. You'll need to solve two cases at once. I have every confidence in your abilities." He relaxed into the company line to cope. Smart move. But even as he said it, he started to wake up properly from the catatonic fluster. He began to remember how the Peake worked its lawless mojo. He remembered, it was written into the lines on his forehead, the way his eyes ground into her, why exactly there needed to be a hotel detective to put all of this together. "This is where you tell me this isn't two cases, isn't it? This—gentleman—is related to the dead monkey."
Jack shrugged. "Same jigsaw, different corner. This man's name is Pennington, and until about two minutes ago he was my prime suspect." |
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