Free ARC: Peacemaker by Marianne de Pierres

too?”
    Silence.
    “Answer me or I’ll dismember Princess Puti.”
    Puti was his number one doll. The one he never took out of her dustproof, fireproof, shockproof casing.
    “Virgin!” he sounded horrified.
    “I mean it.” And I did. I was still pissed at him for spying on me.
    “Well, I had a surveillance bug in there but he found it.”
    “Crap.”
    “That’s what I thought too.”
    “Is he smarter than you, Totes?”
    “His detection technology is newer,” he replied flatly.
    I’d got under his skin about something. Good.
    I hung up and thought for a moment. Not much I could do, except get on with my own investigations.
    I checked the time. It was just past the first sitting at most places for dinner. Maybe I’d go have a meal in the Western Quarter and then head on to Divine. See what information I could shake loose. I had a picture of the bone feather on my phone and I knew someone who might help.
     
    My enjoyment of the T-Bone and coleslaw at Dabrowski’s Steakhouse was spoiled by the fact I had a cop sitting in the opposite booth pretending to eat curly fries. He’d been waiting outside the lobby of my apartment and had inexpertly tailed me this far. Indira Chance must have gone home for the night.
    I forked mushroom sauce onto the meat and chewed slowly. Leaving through the kitchen door might be an option but was a pretty predictable way totry and shake a tail. If he was working with anyone else they’d be watching the other exits. That left me only one option.
    I signaled the waitress, Greta, over to me.
    “You ready for your soft serve, Ranger Jackson?”
    “No thanks, Greta. But I could do with a little distraction.”
    She poked at her ringlet-curled mountain of hair with her stylus, and hitched her hose up by pinching at the waist band through her uniform. “You mean that copper drowning in chicken salt over there?”
    “That’s him. Is Chef Dabrowski in the kitchen?
    She nodded.
    “Time I told him personally how good his steak is.”
    She grinned at me. “So you should.”
    “If you could block my policeman friend’s view of the front door for a few seconds, I’d be most grateful.” I placed the cost of the meal and a generous tip into her hand.
    She winked and made a beeline for the opposite booth. Just before her plus size girth bent in front of the cop, I leapt up and headed for the door. Once there, I opened it wide and let it swing shut. Then I ducked back and around a pillar into the kitchen. The peep-through window let me see the cop push past Greta and race out the front door. She went straight after him, chasing payment.
    After an embarrassed exchange of cash on the pavement, he disappeared into the throng outside.
    I grinned and turned around to find the entire kitchen staring.
    “I’m… er… just…”
    Chef Dabrowski stomped out of his office to see what had caused the staff’s paralysis and spotted me, saving them an explanation. His demeanor switched from stormy to sunlit in less than a second and a moment later, he scooped me up and pressed me hard against his all-in-one chest and belly.
    “My little girl,” he crooned. “You never come to see me anymore.”
    I arched back a little to catch my breath against the raw garlic and onion on his breath. “Not true, Chef. I eat here once a week. I just don’t like to bother you. You’re a busy man.”
    “Just like your father,” he cooed. “So humble.”
    I couldn’t help but smile. Dad and Chef went back some ways. Not sure how it began but Dad lent him some money to start the business. Chef paid it back years ago, but their bond had endured. You give a person a start in life and they’re unlikely to forget it – the decent ones at least. And Chef was more than decent, if a little overpowering. When Dad died, he’d sent me a home delivered meal every Monday for a year until I insisted he stop.
    The door behind us swung open and Greta waltzed in balancing a stack of trays. “He’s gone, Virgin. Lit out