Three twisted pieces of metal gleamed on the rich mahogany of the dining room table, the largest about three inches in length and maybe an inch wide, pinched in the middle. The smallest was no longer and no thicker than Arcady’s index finger. He delicately picked up the pieces, turning them over in nervous fingers, as three members of the bomb squad stood around the table. On the other side of the table, Kincaide sat with her arms crossed, waiting.
Zene, for his part, wondered who he could ask for a good stiff drink. The air was tense, and the atmosphere was not helped by Kincaide’s thousand-degree glare at Arcady.
“Unusually thin for an impromptu bomb case,” said Arcady in a stage whisper. Zene snorted.
