His face tightened and his gaze cut away. “Nobody renamed the streets,” he growled. “Unless they did it without notifying a single person in authority.” He looked back at me, hard. “I thought there might be something else you wanted to tell me, Ms. Lane. Something that might sound…a bit…unusual?”
I saw it then, in his eyes. Something had happened to the inspector recently that had drastically changed his paradigm. I had no idea what had shaken the hardboiled, overworked, fact-finding detective from his pragmatic view of the world but he, too, was now thinking outside his box.
I needed him back inside his box—ASAP. Outside the box in this city was a dangerous place to be.
I thought fast. I didn’t have much to work with. “Inspector,” I said, sweetening and softening my Georgia drawl, “putting on the southern,” as we call it back home, a sort of verbal honey-butter that masks the unpalatable taste of whatever we’re slathering it on, “I know you must think me a complete idiot, coming over here and questioning your investigative techniques when anyone can see you’re the expert in the field and I don’t have an ounce of training in detecting matters, and I appreciate how patient you’ve been with me, but I no longer have any concerns about your investigation into my sister’s death. I know now that you did everything you could to solve her case. I meant to stop by and speak with you before I left, but…well, the truth is I was feeling a bit embarrassed about our previous encounters. I went back to the alley the other day and took a good look around, without crying and letting my emotions get away from me, and I realized that my sister didn’t leave me any clues. It was grief and anger and a whole boatload of wishful thinking on my part. Whatever was scratched into that alley had been done years ago.”
“Whatever was scratched into that alley?” O’Duffy repeated carefully, and I knew he was recalling how adamant I’d been only last week about exactly what was scratched into that alley.
“Really, I could barely make it out at all. It might have been anything.”
“Is that so, Ms. Lane?”
“Yes. And I meant to tell you it wasn’t her cosmetic bag, either. I got that mixed up, too. Mom said she gave Alina the silver one and it wasn’t quilted. Mom wanted us to be able to tell them apart. We were forever arguing over whose was what and what was whose. The fact is I was grasping at straws and I’m sorry I wasted your time. You were right when you told me I should pack up, go home, and help my family get through these difficult times.”
“I see,” he said slowly, and I was afraid he really did—right through me.
Didn’t overworked, underpaid civil servants grease only squeaky wheels? I wasn’t squeaking anymore, so why wasn’t he getting the message and holstering his oilcan? Alina’s case had been closed before I’d come over, he’d refused to reopen it, and I’d be darned if he was reopening it now. He’d get himself killed!
I abandoned the oversweetened drawl. “Look, Inspector, what I’m saying is that I’ve given up. I’m not asking you or anyone else to continue the investigation. I know your department is overloaded. I know there are no leads. I know it’s unsolved and I accept that my sister’s case is closed.”
“How…suddenly mature of you, Ms. Lane.”
“A sister’s death can make a girl grow up fast.” That much was true.
“I guess that means you’ll be flying home soon, then.”
“Tomorrow,” I lied.
“What airline?”
“Continental.”
“What flight?”
“I can never remember. I’ve got it written down somewhere. Upstairs.”
“What time?”
“Eleven thirty-five.”
“Who beat you?”
I blinked, fumbling for an answer. I could hardly say I stabbed a vampire and he tried to kill me. “I fell. On the stairs.”
“Got to be careful there. Stairs can be tricky.” He looked around the room. “Which stairs?”
“They’re in the back.”
“How did you bang up your face? Hit the banister?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Who’s Barrons?”
“What?”
“This store is called Barrons Books and Baubles. I wasn’t able to find anything in public records about an owner, dates of sale for the building, or even a business license. In fact, although this address shows on my maps, to all intents and purposes, the building doesn’t exist. So, who’s Barrons?”
“I’m the owner of this bookstore. Why?”
I jerked, stifling a gasp. Sneaky man. He was standing right behind us, the epitome of stillness, one hand on the back of the sofa, dark hair slicked back from his face, his expression arrogant and cold. No surprise there. Barrons is arrogant and cold. He’s also wealthy, strong, brilliant, and a walking enigma. Most women seem to find him drop-dead sexy, too. Thankfully I’m not most women. I don’t get off on danger. I get off on a man with strong moral fiber. The closest Barrons ever gets to fiber is walking down the cereal aisle at the grocery store.
I wondered how long he’d been there. With him you never know.
*Publishers Weekly
[Highlander 04] - Kiss of the Highlander Page 35