“Then, like a born and bred asshole, he added to the sheriff, "He writes murder mysteries.”

“It’s more believable that a cop would get involved in solving these murders. I mean, you’re talking about writing a series. How believable is it that this Hollywood gossip columnist is going to keep stumbling on all these murders?”

“I know that asshole you were with in college --”“Can we leave that asshole out of it?”Please, gentlemen, one asshole at a time.”

“Guy was saying, “What the hell is it about you that attracts murder and mayhem?""Something in my body language?"He groaned. “That was bad—even for you.”

“See! He likes you,” Natalie said triumphantly.I stared down at the scrawny scrap of fur cautiously sniffing my hand.“He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m going to feed him.”“Now who’s being a cynic? Anyway, every bookstore should have a cat.”The cat -- assuming it was a cat and not some beige bug-eyed refugee from outer space -- slunk uneasily down the counter, and flinched at the flutter of Mystery Scene pages as a gust of warm air blew in from the street.”

“They met at one of the Bouchercon mystery conferences. Love among the midlist. “It’s raining cats and dogs!” Ted announced, which gives you an idea of the sort of thing they write.”

“She didn‟t look like the athletic type to me.” “Maybe Nemov carried her. He looked like he could.” “He looked like he could carry his SUV. I don‟t know why he didn‟t.”