By Glen Cook
She was once tall, blonde, and delivering Garrett an impossible to resist expense to take a case that appeared open and close. yet in a city of elves and people, thugs and swindlers—a position the place magic and faith might turn out an all-too powerful mix—Garrett had realized to take a protracted, demanding glance sooner than announcing yes.
Garrett’s doubts are proven whilst the Grand Inquisitor comes trying to find his assist in the stunning lady’s wake. yet even a hard-boiled detective like Garrett, with a useless guy for an best friend and the hardest half-elf on the town guarding his again, can locate that it’s too past due to decline. seems Garrett’s been fingered because the most modern sacrifice to a long-dead god—and his purely probability to avoid wasting his neck is to resolve the case.
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Additional info for Cold Copper Tears (Garrett P.I. 3)
I can handle it, Garrett," Saucerhead said. " I handed him the retainer. " Pokey said, "That takes care of my business. I'd better go. " Morley grunted a farewell. He was changing. He ached to give Pokey some wholesome dietary advice, for his own good, but he bit his tongue. What the hell? The world wouldn't be half as interesting if Morley changed that much. When just the two of us were left, he looked at me. " "Promise. " "I never saw anyone like you, Garrett. " That bothered me, too. It looked like I'd have to go to work whether I liked it or not.
Good-looking blonde this afternoon. Probably a class hooker. Had somebody harassing her and wanted it stopped. I gave it to Pokey Pigotta. Just before I came down here, an old guy who wanted me to find something he thought was lost. " Morley frowned. He looked at the others and found no inspiration there. " Morley said, "Garrett had an encounter on his way down here. We don't usually see gangs in the neighborhood. They know better. " My feelings were hurt. Nobody was impressed by the fact that I'd taken away three knives.
He's supposed to earn his keep by applying his genius to my cases. He does, sometimes, but he has a deeper philosophical aversion to gainful employment than I do. He'll bust his butt to shirk the smallest chore. Sometimes I wonder why I bother. He was asleep when I dropped in—much to my chagrin, but little to my surprise. He'd been at it for three weeks, taking up the biggest room in the house. "Hey, Old Bones! Wake up! " The best way to get anything out of him is to appeal to his vanity. But the first task is waking him, and the second is getting him to pay attention.