Page 23 of Dropping Like Flies
“I’m not taking you home.”
“No?” He gave a sharp laugh. “Are you kidnapping me?”
When I didn’t credit that with a response, we lapsed back into silence for the duration of the journey, Ben too tired to argue.
He turned his head to study the small twenty-four hour cafe as I parked outside it, climbing out of the car without protest when I did. I returned the car keys to him as we made our way inside, only three of the booths occupied at this ungodly hour, and only one of them containing more than one person. The couple in that booth looked like they were so in love they might just stay there forever and stare into each other’s eyes for eternity. I doubted they would have looked my way even if I stood right next to them and banged a drum. Luckily for them, I didn’t have one with me.
I shoved Ben into a booth as far away from the loved-up couple as possible before making my way over to the counter. The woman behind it had dyed black hair with blond roots showing and looked about as enthused at serving me as you’d expect at this hour. Which was to say not at all. She took my order dutifully, and neither of us felt the need to engage in any conversation beyond what was necessary.
Ben seemed at a loss for something to say when I deposited the chocolate milkshake in front of him. “You still drink milkshakes, right?” It was a stupid question when I knew he did. He still had at least one a week. Sometimes chocolate. Sometimes vanilla. Occasionally, banana. Just as he had to endure my frequent whiskey binges, I had to suffer his sweet tooth.
“You know I do.”
I shrugged. Instead of a milkshake, I’d gone for coffee. Not that I’d be able to taste it once Ben started on the milkshake. With that in mind, I lifted the mug and took a sip, savoring the sharp tang of it. They might not serve the best coffee here, but it was the best available at this hour without making it myself. I studied Ben as he stared out at the deserted street, the booth I’d chosen next to the window. Apart from looking exhausted, he looked the same as he had years ago. The same nose with a slight bump to it where he’d once broken it. The same sandy blond hair cut short for ease of styling rather than fashion. And the gray eyes I’d once enjoyed looking into as much as the loved up couple I was doing my best to ignore.
“Why bring me here?” Ben asked without turning his head, the street apparently holding some fascination for him.
“Would you have slept if I’d taken you home?” He gave a slight shake of his head. “Well, then.”
He dragged his gaze away from the street and skewered me with it. “Would you?”
I considered the question. Bringing someone back from the dead was nothing new, but even I wasn’t hard-hearted enough to pretend that it being a murder victim didn’t bother me. “No,” I answered honestly.
Ben nodded as he reached for his milkshake, the taste of coffee turning to mocha in my mouth as he drank a quarter of it in a series of long swallows. After wiping his mouth, he sat back in his chair and let out a sigh. “In my stupidity, I thought it would be easy. A one and done thing.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being optimistic.” I took another sip of my coffee. When it no longer hit the spot, I reached into my bag and pulled out the hip flask I’d gotten in the habit of carrying around with me. Ignoring Ben’s furrowed brow, I unscrewed the top and poured some whiskey into my coffee.
“Jesus! Can’t you go five minutes without drinking?”
“Apparently not.” I brought my mug to my lips, the exaggerated expression of pleasure I made while drinking, doing exactly what I intended it to and inflaming Ben more. At least while he was angry with me, he wasn’t beating himself up for not being able to create miracles. “It was never going to be that easy,” I said. “Necromancy isn’t that straightforward.”
“Yet, you still said yes to it.”
I leaned forward. “Tell me what you know now that you didn’t know an hour ago.”
“I know that Patrick’s an obstructive dick. I didn’t know that before.” I waited him out, knowing from experience he’d crack before I did. Sure enough, he sat up straighter. “We have somewhere to start looking … a club within walking distance of The Jigsaw Bar.”
“What else?”
“A physical description. Brown hair and blue eyes.” Ben winced. “Which is so vague it probably fits about thirty percent of the population of London.”
“I doubt it’s that high.”
Ben shrugged. “It even fits Lou.”
“And Lou is?”
“My partner. The one asked to take a back seat to make room for you.”
“Are you sure that’s the only reason they asked him to take a back seat?”
Ben laughed. “Are you suggesting he’s been going around picking up men and chopping their fingers off in his spare time?”
I held his gaze. “I’m suggesting that it’s not wise to discount anyone.”
“Not even a fellow detective I’ve known for years?” When I didn’t answer, Ben laughed again. “Right. I’d forgotten you were a great believer in guilty until proven innocent.”
“What else do you know?” I asked, refusing to rise to the bait. I’d already concluded that the only way to stay calm and collected around Ben was to pretend our shared history didn’t exist. He was just a detective I had to work with. Nothing more.
