Death By Degrees by Harrison Drake Read Free Book Online

healthier than I did; if it had been me, it would’ve been doused in butter and salt and the cleanup would have been far worse.
    The kids didn’t care either. They sat on either side of me, the bowl on my lap, and dug in. It was nice to relax for a bit and watch a movie. They had to sit right beside me of course, almost on me really, but it was worth the slight discomfort. Having the two of them curled up on me was a wonderful feeling, and it seemed that with the way the case was heading moments like these would be in short supply.
    Kat ended up bringing breakfast down to me since I didn’t want to get up. Two fried egg sandwiches, nice and sloppy, hit the spot better than I would have expected. Maybe the popcorn appetizer had helped. The few minutes I took to eat also allowed me a tiny bit of extra space, but once the plate was down on the coffee table the kids were back as close as could be.
    The movie ended a bit before lunch so I took the kids into the backyard to play for a bit before I fired up the barbeque. Lunch was hot dogs grilled to perfection by me, a veggie tray put together by Kat, and a plate of berries and apple slices laid out with Kasia’s help.
    I had elevated the hot dog from its humble beginnings, at least for me anyway. The toppings were key and depended on what I had on hand. Pickled daikon, an Asian radish that could grow to the size of your arm, or kimchi, a Korean staple were favourites of mine, but today it was diced Vidalia onions and thinly sliced avocado. Most of my friends, as well as my family, found my hot dog habits a little bizarre, but it had become an art form.
    We had just finished eating when the doorbell rang. The doorbell was rarely used anymore, only the occasional door-to-door sales calls, charity collections or missionaries, ever seemed to come by. Everyone else was generally expected or known well enough that they could just walk in. These two were neither.
    I looked through the window as I approached the door and saw my inspector standing there with another man. The mystery man was at least twenty years my senior, graying hair and a receding hairline, and a pair of thick-lensed glasses showed his age, while the slim body dressed in an impeccably pressed suit made me think otherwise.
    “Afternoon, Sir,” I said, opening the door and letting them in. Inspector Arthur Bateman, ranking officer at the detachment.
    “Lincoln, sorry to bother you at home, but I didn’t want to drag you away after the last couple of days. Figured you still needed a break.”
    “Thank you, Sir.” I looked toward the other man and the Inspector took the bait.
    “My apologies. Lincoln, this is Jean-Pierre Dumas, Secretary-General of INTERPOL. Jean-Pierre, Detective Lincoln Munroe.”
    The handshake was over before it had really sunk in. The Secretary-General of INTERPOL was at my house?
    “Welcome, Sir,” I said, wondering what the hell was going on. “Please, come in.”
    “ Merci ,” he said, before correcting himself. “Thank you.” His accent was obvious, but not a hindrance in communication.
    I showed them into the living room and offered them a seat.
    “Can I get either of you anything to drink?”
    “Still a scotch drinker, Lincoln?”
    “I may have some, Sir. For yourself, Mr. Dumas?”
    “That would be great. And please, call me Jean.”
    “And Lincoln, cut the Sir crap with me as well. You know how I feel about that.”
    Same way I did. Rank had its place, as did addressing superior officers formally. Being in the presence of the head of the International Criminal Police Organization was one of those times.
    “I take mine neat,” I said. “Same?”
    Jean looked at Arthur. “No ice.” Jean nodded.
    I poured us each two fingers of scotch, an eighteen-year-old Highland malt, and handed the glasses out before taking a seat. Kat walked into the room and noticed Arthur.
    “Arthur, hello,” she said. “It’s been a while.” Both Arthur and Jean stood up when they noticed