Page 15 of The Shadowed Oracle
“Fine!” Dean’s voice rose an octave. “I’m trying to change the subject. But I’m also interested in what you like to read. So just tell me about the—or no, actually, I’ll go first.” He named the title and author currently resting on his bedside table, then pushed again for Ingrid to share. “Now you go.”
Ingrid hesitated. Recalling the last time she’d shared her tastes with Franky, she almost avoided the question entirely. “I mostly read history books,” she said it so reluctantly that Dean had to ask again.
“History books. War,” she repeated, and winced as the word left her mouth. She’d had enough experience to know this answer either bred skepticism from men, or created an image of her as some contrarian eager to prove she was different.
She added, “But I like all Non-fiction. My one stipulation is that the events have to be from way before I was born. Otherwise, my imagination feels… limited.”
“So partly a history buff, partly a nostalgia reader.”
“I guess, yeah,” Ingrid said. “It’s comforting. When people lived so simply. When reading or going to a play or an opera house was the only entertainment. Everything was slower. More isolated. Whatever little corner you inhabited, it felt like the most important place in the world. And I think that’s beautiful.”
There was a pause, followed by a crinkling sound, like Dean was adjusting the phone to his other ear. “I get that. My mom always said that humanity advanced too quickly. That they got too big for their own good.”
“I think I’d like your mom,” Ingrid mused.
“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” he chuckled. “That’s how we got started on this sidetrack in the first place.”
“Good point.” Ingrid’s insistence flooded back like it’d never left. “Now, how about that sting operation. Can the FBI set it up?”
Dean grunted, letting out a long breath, “No.”
“Why?”
“They don’t do that kind of thing.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do,” he hinted. “It’s not happening. This guy isn’t some rowdy outlaw. He’s a highly intelligent serial murderer. The police would be too liable, too exposed. It’s too risky.”
Ingrid wouldn’t accept that. “Then I’ll do it. It’ll probably work better anyway, without all that other fluff going on.”
“Fluff?” Dean snorted. “You mean tactical police forces and the FBI?”
“Yeah, those guys.” Ingrid saw the humor in it, but couldn’t laugh. “They’d be too obvious about it. This way, the killer will have a harder time locating any suspicious bystanders. Because it’ll just be me.”
“Just you?”
“That’s right,” Ingrid lied. She knew it wouldn’t happen that way. At the very least, Dean would try to talk to his superiors about it, especially now that she was insisting on doing it alone. Playing up her rashness, she said, “Just me. And also my gun, of course. The terrible twosome. The dastardly duo.”
Dean nearly choked trying to dissuade her. “No fucking chance. If you do anything like this, we have to orchestrate it with the detectives and the head agent. Or, you know, any kind of professional.”
“We’re going in circles now,” Ingrid huffed. “Which is it? Will the police set this up, or not?”
Another pause. A deep breath. “I’ll ask them tomorrow,” Dean said. “See what I can do.”
Ingrid shifted to her knees, getting more comfortable on the less indented cushion of her small couch. “Oh, so you have that kind of pull, huh?”
“Why do you sound surprised? I told you, I’m a very well-respected member of the force.”
“I bet you are. All those detective shows, theyalwaysfollow the scientist’s lead.”
Dean hurriedly defended himself. “I’m not just a scientist.”
“That may be. But am I wrong?” Ingrid teased.
“No. You’re not wrong.” It sounded painful for him to say it. “And by the way, has anyone ever told you how lovely your voice comes across on the phone?” Ingrid didn’t answer. “Good. Because it doesn’t sound lovely at all. It’s the opposite, actually. Like you’re about to bite my head off.”
Ingrid resisted the upward pull of her lips. “Well, I am the crazy girl with visions.”
