Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 51825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51825 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
There are rumors about me, too, I think. I’m a teller of great jokes, a lover of strawberry pie, Cheetos, and chocolate. And I could be, most likely am, a killer, like my kingpin husband. And I still get my job done, so we’ll see where this leads with Adams. I step in front of the two guys, stupid déjà vu from yesterday. Stupid because this is just stupid. It’s a damn diner, where people are trying to eat. If the director wanted to be protected, he should have chosen the FBI offices.
“I’m The Chosen One,” I announce. “I get to go inside and have bad coffee.”
“Bug off,” one of them says. “Come back later.”
“Bug off,” I say. “Is that the same as fuck off? Because I’ll happily do that. Tell Adams Lilah said he can bug off, too. I kind of like that. It sounds so polite and yet it’s so vulgar.” I start to turn, and the second agent jumps in.
“Agent Love—”
“Mendez,” I correct. “I’m feeling gangsta today.”
“If I could just view your badge, we’ll get you right in the door.”
I point at the other guy. “But he told me to bug off. And his hand is twitchy. He might try to shoot me and then I’ll have to stab him. Or the assassin that killed Murphy could shoot me right here where I stand. Think how bad that will look for Interim Director Adams, being new on the job and all.” I hold out my badge anyway. I’m going inside.
The bug off dude opens the door for me. “Please step inside, Agent Mendez.”
“Open door service,” I murmur. “How polite.”
I step inside the diner, which is mostly dingy white as a theme, which is somehow more noticeable without a ton of bodies crammed into the place. A pretty, young blonde waitress greets me. “Good morning. So happy you can join us.”
She clearly missed the “be a bitch and give bad service” class. This place might be improving.
She points me toward Calvin Adams, the only guest in the place, and I head in that direction.
Speaking of young, my new boss is younger than I expected, maybe thirty-eight, with sandy-brown wavy hair that is most likely curly but refuses to straighten. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt he compliments with cowboy boots. You can put a badge on a cop, but you can’t put new footwear on a Texan. I slide into the seat across from him and shrug out of my coat, which is restrictive and will limit my ability to shoot him.
“You’re so stereotypical,” I say. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t say y’all and fixin’ a few times in this conversation. Do you drive an F-150?”
He grins. “I did in high school and college.”
“And now?”
“Whatever the agency gives me to drive. I was fixin’ to order some coffee. How about you?”
I roll my eyes and glance up at the waitress who’s standing next to us. “Your coffee sucks,” I say. “I’ll still take a cup but do something to make it better. Lots of cream and whipped cream or whatever works.”
“It does suck,” she agrees, “but I know just how to do you right.” She glows with pride over this announcement.
“Then do me right, too,” Adams instructs. “And what do you have that’s sweet?”
“Pie,” she says. “Today’s special is coconut.”
“Does it taste like the coffee?” I ask.
“It’s actually pretty good,” she assures me and since she was honest about the crummy coffee, I’m leaning toward believing her pie recommendation.
“Think before you answer,” I warn Debbie, per her badge. “Your entire credibility as a human being is riding on this. Do you stand by your claim the pie is ‘pretty good’?”
“I do,” she says with a laugh. “Despite my utter fear of people with badges. My knees are shaking.”
“Yes, well don’t turn us into gods,” I say. “Okay, not him. Just me.” She laughs again and I say, “I’ll try the pretty good coconut pie and I promise not to shoot you or arrest you if it’s bad. I’ll just give you dirty looks.”
“I’m in, too,” Adams says, and the waitress hurries away.
“You’re kinder than I was told,” he comments.
“You’re a very confused person.”
“Let me amend that statement,” he says. “You’re kinder and smarter than the average killer.”
The implication being that I’m a killer and he knows it and when my eyes meet his, the look in his, tells me he means to rattle me, or perhaps even hold me hostage.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Adams underestimates me if he thinks I rattle that easily. “I’ve killed three out of four of my last perps I was hunting,” I say, when it’s really four out of four. No one knows I killed Roger. We got rid of the body. “Are you scared?”
He stares at me for three heavy beats and then bursts into laughter. “No, but I hope our enemies are.”