But that is another situation in the bloody soap opera that is my life.
Right now, I’m replaying my conversation earlier with Andrew and his warning:
“Some person who claims to know the victims wants you, and only you, to meet her,” Andrew repeats. “I don’t like how that sounds, Lilah.”
“It sounds like about all we have right now,” I say.
He doesn’t let it go. “The killer asked for you by name with that jar of blood with your name on it and now this person is asking for you by name.”
He was right. There is far too much asking for me going on in this situation.
Could this woman be our killer?
Maybe. Maybe not.
All I know is that killers are drawn to me. And I’m drawn to them. The fact that I’m irritated and in a bad mood works for me. It does not work for my enemies.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I don’t like it when people touch me, with the exception of Kane, of course. But when it comes to my personal Ruger handgun, I prefer it intimately close to my body. Unlike my FBI-issued weapon, which reminds me of an eighties’ cellphone hanging at my side, it’s easy to hide, store, and shoot, without a kickback that smashes me in the face. I exit the vehicle, my field bag under my coat at my hip, with a gun inside, all close and personal. I’d really prefer my Ruger to be at my waist. But this is Manhattan and even a petite baby like mine is a gun, and any gun could become an attention grabber. And while they scare bad guys, they terrify those who drink fluffy whipped cream-topped coffee drinks while debating about whose husband fucked them better or bought them a bigger set of fake boobs. That’s a lot of people around these parts.
I enter the coffee shop to an empty store, no one drinking fancy coffee, which really shouldn’t surprise me. This area of town dies down about this time of day, and per the shop sign on the door, they close in an hour, which means me and my mystery woman will have that hour to chat. Smart girl, whoever this is I’m meeting. She set an escape route, as Kane pointed out, and an escape time. I walk to the counter and order a plain coffee. “Got any Baileys to give it a pop?” I ask.
The pretty blonde behind the counter blinks beneath her dark-rimmed glasses. “Baileys?”
Obviously, that’s a no. I try again. “Kahlua?”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “No. But we have an ice cream that has Kahlua.”
“Rum?” I ask, giving it one last shot. I mean, my man did plunge into the ocean in a helicopter yesterday and he did just tell me he intends to continue to not run the cartel we both know he’s running.
“We also have a rum ice cream,” the woman says, shoving her glasses up her nose. “Maybe you could melt it in your coffee.”
She says it with a straight face. I can’t decide if it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard or the most brilliant. I decide not to find out. “Just a straight-up coffee,” I say.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Black and almost unbearable,” I say, because on second thought, making sure I’m not tempted to drink anything that might kill me, by ripping my throat out, seems rather critical right now.
She lifts her brows. “Sure you don’t want that ice cream? It’s really good.”
“Just the coffee,” I say, throwing cash on the counter. “Keep the change,” I add when she hands me my cup.
Brew in hand, I walk to the rear of the joint and claim a seat facing the entrance. I shrug out of my coat. My bag is still at my hip, open, with access to my weapon. I sniff the black coffee, turning up my nose at it, when someone comes up behind me. The next thing I know the waitress sits down in front of me and sets a scoop of ice cream in front of me. “It’s on me. The tip was generous.”
Her hair is down now, while it had been pulled back, and with her apron gone, I can see she’s actually wearing a black dress.
“Who are you? And do you actually work here?”
“No, but I know the manager. And I locked up and turned off the cameras, so we won’t be interrupted. They’re dead this time of day anyway.”
Most people think turning off the cameras intimidates the person they’re talking to. They forget that the person across from them might enjoy the freedom it offers. I ignore the ice cream for good reason. I’d prefer not to have my throat ripped out before my wedding day.
For all I know, I’m sitting across from the killer and she just offered me the newest flavor of ice cream, named after her hobby of killing people. Death wish.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I stare at my could-be killer, and she shifts nervously in her seat. I shove the ice cream in front of her. “You eat it. Focus on it and I’m certain you’ll relax. Sensorial stimulation, such as the cold of the ice cream, can ease anxiety. It actually lowers cortisol levels.”
It’s not bullshit. It’s a real thing. She grabs the spoon and takes a bite. “It’s good,” she murmurs. “I hadn’t actually tried it. I’d just heard it was fabulous. They were right.”
She hadn’t actually tried it.
This means she started out our meeting with a lie by telling me otherwise. Which might not seem like a big to deal to some, but to me, it shows her ease with lies.
And I hate lies.
And liars.
But at least the ice cream wasn’t militarized. That would have sucked.
“There’s a lot I need to tell you,” she says, after another bite. “You might want to take notes.”
“Just tell me the juicy stuff, like who murdered Emma, Naomi, and Rip.”
“It’s not that simple,” she declares.
Kane’s words.
Not her best choice of words.
“Said everyone ever trying to explain why they lied, cheated, or killed someone.”
“I didn’t kill them,” she objects instantly. “God, no. I didn’t kill them.”
“Okay then. What’s your name? And how do you know the victims?”
“Off the record,” she insists. “I’ll give you what you need to know off the record, but on the record, I want to say I know nothing.”
“What is your name?”
“You don’t need my name to take down the information.”
“Some might agree. I don’t.”
Her lips part and she hesitates. I reach for my coat.
“What are you doing?” she asks urgently.
“I need to know who I’m dealing with or this meeting is over.”
“Oh God.” She groans. “Fine. Marilyn Lennox. I work here in the city. I’m a CPA at Becker, Abrams, and Newman.”
Marilyn Lennox. Now I have a name to a face and for all I know, I’m sitting across from the killer.
“They’re high profile,” I comment, seeing her job and her life as fitting a theme, as I add, “Clients that are the rich and famous.”
“Yes, I know. Which is why I can’t get involved in this.”