Free Last Impressions (The Marnie Baranuik Files) by A.J. Aalto

the armor of style. “Smart single guys splurge on cologne because women have a strong sense of smell. You’re built like a linebacker, and you’ve got a scary face — scary-intimidating, not scary-ugly — so you’d be wise to wear a scent that puts girls at ease, something familiar that gives them the impression that you’re trustworthy. An older classic, not some young and aggressive one. Maybe cologne their grandfather would have worn to church.”
    “Scary-intimidating, eh?” He cleared his throat unhappily. The Blue Sense offered me a glimpse of self-critical uncertainty behind the mask of his confidence.
    “The bottle caught your eye, right?” I nodded sympathetically. “Black glass. Ego-stroking name. Rookie mistake.”
    “Your theories on male shopping behavior are fascinating.”
    And often wrong , but not in this case . “Aren’t you gonna ask who I am and why I’m here?” I asked. “Are you at least dazzled by my powers of deduction and observation?”
    “I know why you’re here, Miss Baranuik.”
    Point: Schenk. “Because you’re a hot shot detective?”
    “Because I got a call from your mother.”
    I jolted upright in the seat and my cheeks heated. “She knows I’m in the country? Holy hell, does she have my passport flagged or something?” Oh Goddess, they know I’m here. And they called to warn the cops?
    “Now that we got that settled,” he grumbled, “have a nice day, eh?”
    I sighed. “Don’t be hasty, Schenk. I’m extending professional courtesy, here.”
    “Advising me on my personal scent catalogue?”
    “The fact that you used the phrase ‘personal scent catalogue’ tells me you need more help than I thought,” I confided. “Also, I’m offering to help find Britney Wyatt.”
    “And I thought you were a civilian.”
    “As far as you know, I am.”
    “Sorry. I can’t discuss case matters with a civvie.”
    “Oh. Right.” I picked up his Tim Horton’s cup and shook it to judge its fullness. “Well then, I’m not.”
    That earned me half a smirk. “Can’t imagine what you think you’re doing here.”
    “Drinking the last of your coffee and sticking my nose in your case.”
    He took the cup out of my gloved hand gently, and I let him, noting mitts that fairly dwarfed my own, paws that looked capable of crushing my entire face in one pop. “In what capacity?”
    “Uh…” I wrinkled my nose at him. “Visiting dignitary?”
    “Try again.”
    “Psychic informant?”
    “If I had a nickel for every psychic…”
    “Paranormal expert!” I exclaimed with a glove-muffled clap.
    “Christ, I’ll be laughed out of the briefing tomorrow.”
    “What if I had FBI credentials?”
    “You don’t have FBI credentials.”
    “You don’t know,” I squawked. “I could have Fed-cred up the ying-yang.”
    Constable Schenk stretched his neck from one side to the other, rolling his broad shoulders to release the tension. “ Do you have FBI credentials?”
    “Kinda.” I said defensively. “Sorta.”
    “I’m gonna have to see these kinda-sorta credentials.”
    “Left ‘em with the butler.”
    “Butler,” he said. “Jesus.”
    “No, Jeeves. Actually, Mr. Merritt; his first name is Byron, which is awesome, but not as awesome as Jeeves. Who am I kidding, I’m going to call him Jeeves no matter what his real name is,” I said. “I do have FBI credentials, though.”
    “Where are they?”
    “At North House. Oh, shitfritters, I forgot to ask Mr. Merritt the address. I don’t even know where I’m staying.”
    “A psychic who gets lost in the city where she grew up,” he observed. “Your so-called powers are not doing much for your chances of being useful.”
    “I'm not lost. I just have no idea where I'm going. Important distinction, constable,” I pointed out with an imperious wag of my finger, which felt damn good. “North House is somewhere in Niagara-on- the-Lake. Guess I’ll just look for the hearse. Oh balls, I said shitfritters. I owe Combat