By Laurell K. Hamilton
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Additional resources for The Lunatic Café
I guess he and Gretchen hadn’t needed a car. 7 THERE IS A glimpse of stately old homes to the right just before you turn onto Highway 44. The houses hide behind a wrought-iron fence and a security gate. When the homes were built, they were the height of elegance and so was the neighborhood. Now the town houses are an island in a rising flood of project housing and dead-eyed children who shoot each other over a scuffed sneaker. But the old money stayed, determined to be elegant, even if it kills them.
I did know. “So your wife is a lycanthrope and would lose her business if it came out. I understand that. ” I fought the urge to glance at my watch. I had the tickets. Richard couldn’t go in without me. ” Ah. “I am not a private detective, Mr. Smitz. ” “But I can’t go to the police. ” He shook his head stubbornly. ” I sighed. “I don’t know anything about finding a missing person. ” “Mr. ” He nodded. Shit. Bert and I were going to have a long talk. “The police are good at their job, Mr. Smitz.
A lot of different people had tried to kill me. I was small even for a woman. I jogged, lifted weights, had a black belt in judo, but I was still outclassed by most professional bad guys. They tended to also lift weights, know martial arts, and outweigh me by a hundred pounds or more. I couldn’t arm-wrestle them, but I could shoot them. Also a lot of this year I’d been up against vampires, and other preternatural creepie-crawlies. They could lift large trucks with a single hand or worse. Silver bullets might not kill a vampire, but it certainly slowed them down.