The Laughing Corpse - Laurell K. Hamilton [64]
I dried my hands on the blanket. No sense getting blood on anything else.
Sigmund, the penguin I occasionally slept with, was barely spattered. Just a few specks across his fuzzy white belly. Small blessings. I almost tucked him under my arm to hold while I gave a statement. Dolph probably wouldn’t tell. I put Sigmund a little farther from the worst stains, as if that would help. Seeing the stupid toy tucked safely in a corner did make me feel better. Great.
Zerbrowski was peering at the aquarium. He glanced my way. “These are the biggest freaking angelfish I’ve ever seen. You could fry some of ’em up in a pan.”
“Leave the fish alone, Zerbrowski,” I said.
He grinned. “Sure, just a thought.”
Back in the kitchen Dolph sat with his hands folded on the tabletop. His face unreadable. If he was upset that I’d almost cashed it in tonight, he didn’t show it. But then Dolph didn’t show much of anything, ever. The most emotion I’d ever seen him display was about this case. The killer zombie. Butchered civilians.
“You want some coffee?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“Me, too,” Zerbrowski said.
“Only if you say please.”
He leaned against the wall just outside the kitchen. “Please.”
I got a bag of coffee out of the freezer.
“You keep the coffee in the freezer?” Zerbrowski said.
“Hasn’t anyone ever fixed real coffee for you?” I asked.
“My idea of gourmet coffee is Taster’s Choice.”
I shook my head. “Barbarian.”
“If you two are finished with clever repartee,” Dolph said, “could we start the statement now?” His voice was softer than his words.
I smiled at him and at Zerbrowski. Damned if it wasn’t nice to see both of them. I must have been hurt worse than I knew to be happy to see Zerbrowski.
“I was asleep minding my own business when I woke up to find a zombie standing over me.” I measured beans and poured them into the little black coffee grinder that I’d bought because it matched the coffee maker.
“What woke you?” Dolph asked.
I pressed the button on the grinder and the rich smell of fresh ground coffee filled the kitchen. Ah, heaven.
“I smelled corpses,” I said.
“Explain.”
“I was dreaming, and I smelled rotting corpses. It didn’t match the dream. It woke me.”
“Then what?” He had his ever present notebook out. Pen poised.
I concentrated on each small step to making the coffee and told Dolph everything, including my suspicions about Señora Salvador. The coffee was beginning to perk and fill the apartment with that wonderful smell that coffee always has by the time I finished.
“So you think Dominga Salvador is our zombie raiser?” Dolph said.
“Yes.”
He stared at me across the small table. His eyes were very serious. “Can you prove it?”
“No.”
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “Great, just great.”
“The coffee smells done,” Zerbrowski said. He was sitting on the floor, back propped against the kitchen doorway.
I got up and poured the coffee. “If you want sugar or cream, help yourself.” I put the cream, real cream, out on the kitchen counter along with the sugar bowl. Zerbrowski took a lot of sugar and a dab of cream. Dolph went for black. It was the way I took it most of the time. Tonight I added cream and sweetened it. Real cream in real coffee. Yum, yum.
“If we could get you inside Dominga’s house, could you find proof?” Dolph asked.
“Proof of something, sure, but of raising the killer zombie . . .” I shook my head. “If she did raise it and it got away, then she won’t want to be tied to it. She’ll have destroyed all the proof, just to save face.”
“I want her for this,” Dolph said.
“Me, too.”
“She might also try and kill you again,” Zerbrowski said from the doorway. He was blowing on his coffee to cool it.
“No joke,” I said.
“You think she’ll try again?” Dolph asked.
“Probably. How the hell did two zombies get inside