Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“And a woman. Did you meet his new bimbo?”
“If you mean Elizabeth, I like her. She’s good with the press.”
“And yet you knew who I meant by ‘bimbo’?”
“You’re such a bitch, Lilah.”
“I’m a truth teller, and the world needs more truth-tellers.”
“Well, you are that.”
“Dad’s not.”
“I know,” he replies tightly. “You know what my goal is here.”
To punish him for killing mom. Now I wonder if he’s guilty, at least on this topic. “What I know,” I reply, “is that some conversations are not meant for the phone.”
“Agreed. I rented an apartment in the city today.”
“From Pocher?”
“No. I prefer to keep my living quarters under my own control.”
“Good. Because I know he owns Dad’s place without looking it up and I’m sure he already has ten sex tapes with dad as a star. So, do I think he will make it eight years? Only if he does as told and I hope Pocher’s people are listening in on this call. Truth teller.”
“I wish you weren’t right. I’ll text you my new address, and if you need extra legs to work your case, I’m here all week.”
“Actually, I do,” I say because five days is short and one thing Andrew is, is a good investigator who I know, while Rollins’ team I do not. “Can you check out a couple of places for me tomorrow?”
“Sure. Text me the details.”
We disconnect and I send him the details on Miller’s bar, the staff that works there, and his ex, along with a little rundown on his murder. The only thing I don’t want my brother to know is the suspected five-day deadline until the next murder. I love and trust him, but he’s just too close to my father’s campaign, and I can’t have that information end up in the press. Chaos will ensue and I will lose four of the five days.
When that’s done, I lay back and shut my eyes a moment, only it’s not a moment at all apparently, because I blink and the room is dim, and Kane is squatted next to me, his hand on my leg.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi,” he replies softly. “Don’t we have drinks with Murphy in half an hour?”
“Shit.” I sit up. “I should have told you. He made an excuse about work and cancelled. I think it’s a lie. I’ve never invited him to be in the same room with me at the same time, let alone to have drinks. He must have sensed something was up.”
“That’s a safe assumption considering you never invite anyone anywhere.”
“I invite people places, like to interrogation rooms and jail cells. And here’s an invitation for you: I’m starving. Take me out for some curly fries and coffee at Curly Joe’s. I really want you to try this place.”
“Why do I know this is part of your investigation?”
“Because you know me. And yes, it is. I’m pretty sure someone in that place, or who visits that place, is a really nasty killer. And don’t change. I want you to stay in your suit.”
“Because you think I look like a Latin Stallone?”
I roll my eyes. “Enough Latin Stallone already. If my theory is right, arrogance and money are triggers for the killer. You have those in abundance. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and he’ll be stupid enough to target you. Then I can stab him, and you can bury the body.”
He stands up, takes my hand, and pulls me to my feet. “I didn’t think you would ever joke about that day, Lilah.” His tone is serious.
Mine is not. “Back then, that was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. It’s not anymore.”
“Then what is?”
Not feeling remorse, should probably be my answer. But it’s not. Him going down in that chopper, and me thinking he was dead, is. But he’s not dead, so I say, “It’s not happened yet. And it’s not going to happen. I won’t let it.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Curly Joe’s is dead tonight.
When Kane and I arrive, we pause just inside the doorway and scan the seating area. There’s a college kid studying in a back booth, and a couple of girls chattering with one another at a table, plus a mom and daughter at the counter. Then there’s us. I motion to the counter, and Kane and I each claim a stool. Somehow, Kane makes sitting on that red faux leather stool, in his ridiculously expensive suit, look natural, too. He’s not a sore thumb, when someone else in that suit, with this much confidence aka arrogance, would be. That ability to be comfortable anywhere is the definition of confidence. If he doesn’t get attention from our killer, I don’t know who will.
Ted, the waiter from the other night, steps to the counter, shoving his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Can I get you another cup of whipped cream, Agent?”