We exit the airport and the sun has set, the night crisp but clear. An SUV is waiting on us, and Jay and Kit are our ride-alongs. There’s another SUV of men that follow us. Obviously, Kane isn’t taking any chances but it looks like the damn president is in town, or at least a rock star.
We head toward Midtown and Rockefeller Center. We’ve circled the block three times when my cellphone rings. “It’s her,” I say when the screen reads “unknown caller.”
“Where are you?” she asks.
“Where are you?” I counter.
“I’ll meet you at Zibetto Espresso Bar off Fifty-Seventh.” She hangs up.
“Zibetto Espresso Bar off Fifty-Seventh,” I call out to Jay, who’s behind the wheel.
“Smart girl,” Kane says. “That’s right by Penn Station, which makes it easy for her to escape.”
“She won’t be going anywhere until she tells me how any of this has anything to do with us,” I assure him as Jay halts just beyond the door of the coffee shop. I glance at Kane. “Stay close. I might need you.”
“Always, beautiful.”
Always.
Until he’s dead, like his father, because he won’t just flipping kill Pocher and walk away from the cartel.
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.”