Free Halfway Dead by Terry Maggert Page B

There’s something about the accrued magic of our family that lets me know when things are about to get dicey, and I felt that unwelcome fizz through the skin of my mark just as the door opened behind me.
    The detective who’d been staring at me the day before was standing in the door, surveying the diner with that falsely-casual nature that cops use when they’re trying not to spook someone. His brown eyes swept the room in a pace that was slow and easy; this was something I sensed he’d done many times before. He wore a white shirt, tan slacks, and shoes that looked like he could run in them. I noticed all of these things because he was only five feet away, and before I could recede into the safety of my kitchen, he locked eyes with me and took two quick steps in my direction, his hands loosely held at his sides.
    I stayed relaxed. Whatever he was, it wasn’t magical, and I’m not afraid of cops. Humans can be rotten to the core, and I can deal with them, but this guy just seemed capable and a bit smarter than his facial expression was letting on. I adopted a bland look of my own and stood silently, letting the bustle of the diner protect me from an awkward pause in a conversation that hadn’t yet started. I’m patient when I need to be; I learned it from dealing with Gus.
    “Carlie?” he asked, but he wasn’t really asking. He already knew my name.
    I thought it was interesting that he called me Carlie. I nodded, waiting. He looked around easily, then made an internal decision. “What’s good here?” He smiled, and I sensed that he was actually going to eat. Whatever he wanted, his hurry wasn’t so great that breakfast needed to wait. I decided that was good.
    “What are your feelings about waffles?” I tilted my head at him, watching.
    He held up three fingers. “I am pro-waffle. I am pro-coffee. And I am, most certainly, pro-maple syrup, but only if it’s real.” His voice was mild and friendly.
    “Did you know that the fine nation of Canada has a maple syrup reserve?” I asked him.
    “I do. It’s a critical market item that they consider more than just a symbolic issue.” When I raised my brows, he added, “I read a lot.” Then he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Jim Dietrich.”
    “Hi, Jim. Why were you watching me?” I gave him a level stare. I don’t like feeling cornered.
    He busied himself adjusting silverware, giving his knife a cursory glance, and then placing it pointedly back on the counter. When he looked up, his eyes were fixed on me with far more than simple curiosity. “Call it a professional interest.”
    I wasn’t exactly intimidated, so I jerked a thumb over my shoulder and said, “Enjoy your breakfast. I need to cook.”
    His hand shot up, palm outward. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have been lurking, and I really do want to eat. I’m not a police officer, or special secret agent or anything like that. I mean, I was, but not now. I need your help, nothing illegal, and if you’ll give me a moment of your time, I would consider it an act of kindness, not an obligation.” He folded his hands and waited, brows raised to indicate he didn’t know what I was going to say.
    That made two of us.
    I put a hand on my hip as my eyes narrowed. I still felt something was unusual, but there wasn’t imminent danger. “I get done at two. I’ll be available for five minutes, and then I have things to do.” I nodded in dismissal and turned to reclaim the grill. I was getting a bit tired of men waiting for me after my shift. There didn’t seem to be any good news, just weirdness, and my instincts told me it was only going to get more intense.
    ***
    I was right. Jim Dietrich had been a cop—a state investigator in Maryland, and I was asking him why he left. He didn’t hesitate with his answer, which was always a good sign, but I had a minor weakness spell locked and loaded just in case. I kept one hand at my side as we leaned against a tree across the street from the diner. I