“It’s dinnertime,” he replied in a low voice, brown eyes almost black in their intensity. “It’s … very crowded. Hard to focus. And I should be with you more. I can’t keep you safe if I’m not with you.”
She squeezed his hand, turned at once
“Ava, please don’t g—oh.”
and started leading him through the food court and back to the entrance to the Radisson Blu a few hundred feet away.
“I’m not going anywhere. Well, I am, but you’re coming with me. What, you thought I’d run because you’re stressed?” she chided him.
“It’s been known to happen. Not with you. Others.”
“Every day, you have to wade through the worst people do to each other; it’s literally your job description. I’m impressed you’re not stressed every day. The reason I wanted to meet here is because I’m lazy—my hotel is here—and because I like the Mall of America.”
“Why?”
“Because Danielle never came here—utterly refused—and because my folks only went a couple of times. Called it a marketing monstrosity. It’s one of the places in this benighted state that doesn’t remind me of murder.”
“Oh.”
“But it’s fine if you need to leave. We’ll grab dinner at the hotel. In my room if you want—it’s nice and quiet and oh my God, people have been murdered in the Mall of America. That’s what that look on your face means.”
The tension around his eyes had eased, and he looked down and grinned. “Well. Yes.”
“In unusual ways, or you probably wouldn’t have remembered. The mall’s not even in your bailiwick. It’s Hennepin County, not Ramsey. Let’s go somewhere quiet where I can have a steak and you can tell me about murder.” What have I become?
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and she could sense the weight of feeling behind his words but, because she was an immature idiot, shrugged and looked away. Which is why she didn’t notice her would-be muggers until it was close to too late.
She’d led him outside rather than taking the skyway, and they were skirting the edge of the parking ramp when opportunistic thieves made their presence known with, “Give it up.”
Oh, swell. This is on me. Tom’s probably still freaked out; I should’ve been paying attention for both of us. An unpleasant experience is nigh. Nigh, I say!
She knew the best and safest option was to meekly hand over her purse
“Man said give it the fuck up.”
no matter how much she wanted to arm-wrestle them for it. Still, they were both big—almost as tall as Tom. More worrying, they didn’t seem especially nervous or edgy—she had the impression they’d done this before. The one on the left was wearing a knitted cap pulled low, which also should have tipped her off, and had one hand stuffed into his pocket
(knife? gun?)
while his empty hand dangled at his side. His partner was shorter and wider, and flashed his knife with disconcerting confidence. Less-than-even odds, in other words.
She started to unsling her purse from her shoulder
(better update my list and get more Tootsie Rolls and also a new wallet)
when Tom struck. Literally. She felt the wind of the blow as his fist shot past her face, which was followed by a “crunch” not unlike the sound of someone wrenching a turkey leg from the thigh.
The tall one made an outraged, bubbly sound as blood poured down his chin while his partner lunged into Tom’s left hook. She was astonished at Tom’s speed—she would have expected him to be strong, not swift. Tom made a grab for the first guy, but they had decided to git while the gitting was good, and were around the corner and away not even ten seconds after Tom had thrown his first punch.
“Holy shit! Are you okay?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Are you kidding? Nobody touched me. I didn’t even get my purse all the way off. C’mere, let me see.” He held his hands out to her like a kid letting a grown-up see if their hands were clean. One was fine; the other was … holding something?
“Oh my God, you lifted his wallet.” She stared up at him in amazement. “I thought you just grabbed for him and missed, but you picked his pocket!”
“Yes.”
“That is so cool!”
He grinned and ducked his head, affecting a “no biggie” shrug. “I don’t believe this attack is related to Danielle’s murder or the vandalism, but I’ll hold onto this just in case.”
“Sure, fine, great plan, and also maybe your bodyguarding idea isn’t as craptastic as I assumed.”
“Thank you,” he replied dryly, as she produced Kleenex and dabbed the blood off his knuckles.
Radisson BLU
Bloomington, MN
Room 263
“… and the filet mignon with mushrooms.”
“Yes.”
“And cheddar herb mashed potatoes.”
“Yes.”
“And a pitcher of iced tea.”
“Yes.”
“And white chocolate banana cream pie.”
“Yes-yes-yes!” For a moment, Tom thought the room service server was in real danger as Ava lunged. No, she was merely in a rush to sign the bill and devour her meal. “Looks great. Thank you. Tom! The food’s here.”
“Ava, I am six feet away. I’m very aware the food is here.”
“Keep up the snark and no dessert for you.”
She had brought him back to her one-bedroom suite and ordered their food while he excused himself and fled to the bathroom, washed his hands, then glared at the idiot in the mirror and told him to calm the hell down—yes, hell, I meant hell and definitely not heck—for God’s sake!
It wasn’t the fight. She was fine, he was fine, the threat had been neutralized. It was the other thing. He thought about how best to explain. Most of the time I would have been fine in such a bustling place. But there were a number of factors that heightened my anxiety and shattered my focus. The first factor: Ava Capp.
Must I explain? He was surprised by the thought, one his much younger self would have asked plaintively. Again?
The sharp rap on the door had splintered his concentration, and a few seconds later he heard a delighted yelp
“Food’s here!”
and left the bathroom.
So here they were, eating in companionable silence while he struggled to think of what to say. Ava had wasted no time spreading out the food in the separate dining area; she was a fourth of the way through her steak by the time he pulled his plate of chicken kebobs toward him.
“Thank you. For coming back here.”
“Thank you for going all Apollo Creed over those two. It’s nicer here anyway. Better food and more privacy.”
Yes. Privacy. To talk about the killer. And. Perhaps. Something more?
He did not know, and wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. So he avoided it with, “I like this carpet. It’s incongruously blue.”
She looked up from her plate and giggled. “It is incongruous, isn’t it? Most of these places have tan or brown or gray. Or a pattern. But this is very, very blue.”
“Like a moat.”
“A fuzzy, deep-blue moat.”
A short silence fell, which Ava broke with, “Where’d you learn to fight? Can all medical examiners do that, or just you?”