Percy's been signing books for the past week. Sure, book tours get old after a while, the flashy smiles and the showboating and the alcohol, but usually never this quickly. He thinks he might have carpal tunnel.
The girl in front of him is beautiful but as always, that doesn't seem to make a difference. (The girl could be damn Helen of Troy and it wouldn't make a difference). He gives her a smile and another flourish and the grin she gives him would bring any other man to his knees, but he feels…nothing. He's bored. He puts the drink down, the alcohol turning stale in his mouth.
She walks off, turning back around once to give him a suggestive wink and he responds with a polite wave like he's so used to now. Satisfied the girl turns back and struts back to her table with a spring in her step, giggling. He lets his smile collapse into a defeated sigh.
Tyson frowns. "Still bored, brother?" he asks, bangs hanging over his eyes so very much like his own. Percy studies him for a minute and wonders how his little brother looks so much older than him, wonders why he even brought a seventeen year old to a nightclub anyway.
He musters up a smile. "No," he says softly, reaches for the glass. "I'm never bored," he says louder. It sounds like he's convincing himself.
Annabeth looks at the body in front of her with a frown. "How long has this one been sitting here?" she asks dispassionately as ever.
The M.E. looks at her with a disapproving expression. "Lividity says 10 hours. I'll have to get her back to the morgue," he says.
"Her?"
"Tamara Smith, 23," the M.E. says, picking up an evidence bag and handing it to her. Annabeth sets it aside in favor of the locket resting on the poor girl's chest. "Poor thing," he says, tsking.
She looks at the faces inside and when she sees the teddy bear dangling from the little Tamara Smith's fingers, she wants to say poor thing or maybe what a shame. But emotions don't solve a case; pragmatic, rational behavior does. So she doesn't say any of those things.
Instead she says, "Load her up," and watches unfeelingly as they load her body onto the stretcher, imagines the girl on the slab and exhales slowly. She's got work to do.
Percy goes home exhausted, collapses into his high thread count sheets and bouncy mattress, but he knows sleep won't come as easy to him as it used to before. He stares at the ceiling anyway, closes his eyes after a while because maybe this once, he will sleep. (He doesn't).
Nico comes to her the next morning with his coffee cup in hand in hand and Grover trailing after him. "We found something," he says handing her a file and dutifully ignoring the circles under her eyes, the slump of her shoulders.
She opens the file, raises her eyebrows. "Good work, boys."
Nico smirks. "As if you'd get anything less," he says smugly. She clocks him on the shoulder, but not as hard as she would've. He ignores that too.
No one offers her a coffee before she leaves like they used to. No one says anything to her.
When the cop barges in, Percy is staring at the blank screen on his laptop trying to punch out a chapter, a page even at this point because Rachel's been on his ass all month about his new book.
She breaks his door unnecessarily, and he thinks that maybe she's like him, waiting for something to happen already. He stands up, stares at her boldly, not accusatory, not anything really, just curious. She takes the pause to arrest him, flashing her badge.
"Detective Annabeth Chase, NYPD," she says in a clear, almost regal voice, and the rest fades out. He doesn't even listen to her as she reads him his rights, because he's too busy looking at her and when she turns her steely-eyed gaze on him, he thinks finally.
The sunlight turns her hair to gold on their way out. He isn't bored at all.
The writer doesn't look anything like his author pictures. On the glossy book jackets, he looks rich. Smarmy and charming and suave. Untouchable. Now, with the fluorescent lights turning his tan skin pale, he looks interesting. Human. Real.
She opens the file and pushes it across the desk. He stares in morbid fascination. "Interesting. Serial killer?" he asks, looking up at her with a gleam in his eyes.
She ignores him. "Tamara Smith was killed the same way the girl in your first book is. Do you know her?"
He tilts his head. "She's a billionaire's kid. Other than that, I've never seen her before."
She narrows her eyes at him, and he stares at her unabashedly. She looks away. "Think about it. You're facing murder charges Mr. Jackson," she says, pounding the table.
"No, I'm not, Detective," he says, leaning back in his chair. "If you had anything on me beside the book, you would have charged me and I'd have a lawyer sitting next to me. I'm a writer, not an idiot."
Annabeth gives him a pensive stare. "Where were you ten hours ago?"
Jackson yawns. "A book signing. You can ask my agent to confirm."
Annabeth places the entire file on the desk and taps it. "Look at it anyway. I'll be back in a few hours."
He gives her a devilish smirk, putting his arms behind his head. "Can't wait."
Nico, Grover and Thalia are waiting for her outside the box with raised eyebrows.
She greets them with a smile, addressing Thalia first. "Hey, why weren't you at the crime scene today?"
"Beside the point," Thalia says dismissively. "Who was that?" She jerks a thumb at the window.
"Perseus Jackson, 23, rich author." Annabeth slaps his DMV photo on the murder board. "He's the murder suspect," she says pointedly turning toward Thalia.
"Why? The guy wouldn't be dumb enough to pull something from his own books," Nico says. "Speaking of which, what was that in there?"
She blinks. "What was what?" All three of them roll their eyes at her. "See you in a bit," she says ignoring the skeptical looks they shoot her.
notes: it's been a while hasn't it…*cringes* whoops. read review please.
[EDIT; 8/29] here's the revamp i was talking about…i'll get to the other chapters this week. i know some of y'all have already read this before, but it would help so much if you could review. there's always something i could fix with my fics.