Free Let's Play Dead by Sheila Connolly

crisply.
    “James Morrison,” said the voice on the phone, matching my tone.
    I stifled an inappropriate giggle. Marty had told her cousin Jimmy to call me, and presto, he called—despite the fact that he was a senior FBI agent. And James Morrison, special agent, looked every inch the FBI agent. When we’d first met, I’d wondered if there was a style sheet for agents, because he fit it to a T: conservative suit, polished shoes, regulation haircut. I happened to know he was an all-around good guy, but the immediate question was whether he was calling for personal or professional reasons. I decided not to make it easy for him.
    “Why, James, how nice to hear from you! Do you have news about our missing collection items?”
    “Uh, no.”
    He didn’t add anything immediately, but I let him dangle. Finally he said, “I know it’s short notice, but are you doing anything tonight?”
    I pretended to riffle through my calendar. “No, I don’t have any plans.”
    “Would you like to, uh, have dinner with me?”
    I didn’t really have to think about that. “That would be delightful. Do you want to meet somewhere?”
    “You know that new bistro near City Hall, on Broad Street?”
    Of course I did. I walked past it almost daily, and I often drooled over the menu they posted. “I do. What time?”
    “How about seven?”
    “Seven’s great. See you then.” I hung up quickly, but not before I heard what I thought was a sigh of relief.
    I left the office shortly before seven, but James had arrived at the restaurant before me and was seated at a table that was just right—not too public, not too intimate. He rose as he saw me exchange a word with the maitre d’ and waited until I approached. “Nell, it’s good to see you. Is the new job agreeing with you?” He held out my chair for me. One of the last gentlemen.
    “I think so,” I said. “I can’t believe it’s been a couple of months already. I’m up to my neck in trying to keep the day-to-day stuff moving forward, without even thinking about any major changes.”
    He sat down across from me. “Do you plan any changes?”
    “You know the problems we have, but I don’t see what I can do about them without a big cash infusion. We’ve beefed up the front-desk procedures, but it’s really hard to know whether that helps. We’ll see. Any further word about our artifacts?”
    “Not much, I’m afraid. These things take time, and you know you can’t count on a high success rate. I wish I had better news, but we’re actively working on it. And of course you know Marty’s on the case, and she’s a bulldog.”
    He had that right. At least Marty had a strong moral compass to go with her determination. “That’s what I assumed when I didn’t hear from you. And I’m not surprised. I’m just pleased—and grateful—that we didn’t get much negative publicity out of it all.” All right, this was silly: I couldn’t relax until I knew why he and I were here. “Funny thing—I saw Marty just yesterday. She mentioned you.” I waited to hear how he would respond to that.
    His mouth twitched. “That would account for her phone call last night. She suggested that I might want to get together with you. I believe this is what’s known as a date. Although I may be out of step with the times.”
    “Oh, is that what this is? You don’t have some nefarious scheme to reveal to me? You don’t want me to spy on someone for you?” It was kind of fun to tease him.
    “No to both. I thought we, uh, had some interesting interactions the last time we met, and I wanted to see you under less, uh, stressful circumstances. Do you want to leave now? I’d hate to keep you here under false pretenses.”
    “Why would I do that?” An attractive, intelligent man with a steady job—and one who actually knew something about my patchy romantic history—might be interested in pursuing a nonprofessional relationship with me! I could get excited about that—if I had any energy