Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
So her mother was a sore spot.
Whose wasn't?
I glanced back out, finding Lou already half a block away, her determined gait doing nothing to distract from the sway of her hips, the way her ass filled out her jeans perfectly.
I climbed out, having to jog to catch up with her. "Where ya headed?"
"Nicky Musgrove," she said easily, raising a brow when I shook my head. "Known associate from the file. The only legwork that seemed to be put into this case."
It was pretty fucking impressive how much she had retained from what seemed like a cursory glance at the file while trading barbs with her asshole boss. I had been looking over the file on and off for the whole ride down the state, and the name didn't even ring a bell, let alone an address for him.
"What's he do?"
"Aside from, I imagine, gambling? No clue. All there was in the file was a name and address."
"So you are just gonna go knock on his door?"
"Or jimmy open his kitchen window."
"You didn't grab any weapons."
"I didn't? she asked, reaching into her jacket pocket to produce a stun gun. Then, digging in another, a pocketknife. "I very much doubt he is going to outrun me, so a gun isn't necessary. Also, harder to hide."
I had a gun on me, but it didn't seem the time to tell her that. "Why don't you think he could outrun you?"
"His driver's license," she told me, shooting me a small smile. "He's closing in on four-hundred pounds."
We fell into silence for a few minutes as we walked, her long-legged pace and the bite of the wind chilling me through my jeans and jacket. This was nothing compared to a Russian winter, but that was one of the many reasons I didn't set down roots there.
"Why do ya run in jeans?" I asked as we turned down a side street.
"I am not a runner," she started.
"Coulda fooled me."
"I mean I don't do it because I enjoy it. I do it because my job requires running a lot of the time. So the only reason I get out there every morning is so some fuck doesn't run away with my paycheck. And since I likely won't be chasing after a skip wearing those trendy stretchy pant things, I run in what I would have to run in for work."
"What if a mark was in a fancy place?"
To that, her lips quirked up ever-so-slightly. "I could outrun you in heels, Adler. Take you down in under two minutes."
"Helps that I am not up on my cardio," I told her, shrugging. "But if the endgame is you taking me down, duchess, don't see why I would run hard at all."
"Cute," she said, waving a hand at a sand-colored brick apartment building seven stories high, black fire escapes marring the side that theoretically faced the water, but I doubt anyone could see past the taller buildings in the main area of town.
"This it?"
"Yep."
"We going in the front or the fire escape?"
"Know how to pick a lock, Adler?"
"What? Am I five? Might as well ask me if I can tie my shoes. What criminal can't pick a lock?"
"We're going in the front. Hopefully, he's nocturnal like any good criminal in this town."
"How do ya know he's a criminal?"
"He has a face tattoo," she said, pulling open the front door, the lock knocked loose when we walked up to it. "And since he isn't a nineteen-year-old rapper, I am going to go ahead and assume he's not gainfully employed anywhere."
"Fair enough," I agreed, standing back, just taking in the view as she walked over to the boxes piled on the mail table, picking each up, checking out the addresses, before finding the one we were after. "3C," she declared waving the box, then tucking it under her arm, and moving off toward the stairs.
"Got something against elevators?"
"It's only three flights," she told me, shrugging before taking off at the stairs at a dead run, making me seriously second-guess her earlier declaration about hating running as I took off behind her, catching up as she rounded on the door, holding a hand out at the lock.
"Prove that you're more than just a pretty face," she demanded, tone low in case Nicky was within earshot.
"We're gonna have to revisit that pretty face comment later," I told her, crouching down, pulling a lock pick set out of my wallet where one had lived for several long decades. I made short work of it, hearing the click, shooting her a smirk as she reached for the handle.
"Not bad. But I can do better," she declared, pushing the door in, stepping into the open space provided, craning her neck around before waving me in as well.
I took her shoulder as we moved through the apartment, sparse in the way that all men's places tended to be, decorations being nothing more than piles of clothes and the occasional poster tacked up without a frame.