Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman Page 8

  Unwilling to meet his searching gaze, I busied myself with slathering butter into every crevice of my waffle. “You’d think it would be more cost effective to put more product into bigger packaging,” I muttered, struggling to open my third pack. “No one ever uses just one or two.”

  “Maybe,” he said, prying the plastic from my fingers. “They figure people will give up because they can’t get them open. So therefore they use less.”

  He peeled back the lid with no problem and handed it back to me.

  “That might work for the diner owners, but how does that benefit the butter producers?”

  “Damn, she forgot my juice.”

  “Maybe,” I suggested, “they charge per hundred packets or something like that.”

  “I need my coffee refilled too.” He held up his cup so that the waitress could see, the universal sign to top it off. “Can I get my juice, when you get a chance?” he asked as soon as she was within earshot.

  “You said no juice,” the waitress said, petulantly snapping the wad of chewing gum that made one side of her face look like she was a chipmunk undergoing dental work.

  If she’d spoken that way to me, I would have cracked wise at her, but Mulligan just sort of smiled and said quietly, “Actually I asked for a large orange juice. She,” he inclined his head in my general direction, “said no juice.”

  “Fine. Large orange juice.” Refilling his coffee, she got almost as much in his saucer as she poured in the cup. Without asking me if I wanted mine warmed, she flounced off.

  “I said the waffles were good, not the service,” my tablemate said before I could even open my mouth to make a crack about the service with a smile. He pulled a handful of napkins from the dispenser and layered them between his cup and saucer. They quickly turned brown as they soaked up the liquid.

  The charming waitress smacked a large tumbler of orange juice in front of him as though she was using the glass to tenderize the table.

  “Thank you,” he murmured politely.

  I wondered if maybe he thought killing someone with kindness was actually possible.

  “You got any experience?” He crammed a mouthful of egg and waffle into his mouth.

  “Experience?”

  “With the chore. Have you done it before?”

  “Do I look like I’ve done it before?” I squeaked a little. Did he too think I look like a killer?

  “I thought maybe your father. . . . never mind. Do you have any special skill sets?”

  “How do you know about my father?”

  “The whole force knows about Archie Lee.”

  The bank teller my father had “accidentally” killed was the wife of a cop. Yet another reason he would spend the rest of his life rotting in a cell.

  Detective Mulligan put his fork down and sat up straight, as though an idea had just occurred to him. “Why don’t you just ask him where his stash is? He got away with what? A million? That would go a long way toward paying hospital bills.”

  I’d already thought of that. He hadn’t offered when I’d gone to visit him in prison. I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask him for it, but I wasn’t about to get into that with the redhead sitting across from me. “According to the prosecutor it was just under ten million. He didn’t get that much cash. Most of it was in the form of jewels.”

  “I never got that. Why knock over a bank in the middle of the day for gems? Why not just hit a jewelry store at night? Less chance of getting caught.”

  “Less chance of an innocent bystander getting killed.”

  He let that go. “There was probably some fraudulent insurance claims filed for so-called stolen jewelry, so split the difference. He’s probably got five mil or so hidden somewhere. He’s never gonna use it. Why not ask him to help his granddaughter?”

  Not wanting to make eye contact with him for fear he’d spot the depth of my anger, I carved up my waffle savagely. “He wouldn’t give it up. I’m sure he’s got some crazy-ass plan to break out of prison. He’s done it before.”

  “To visit your mother.”

  I looked up at him. Those blue eyes trapped my gaze. I swallowed convulsively. “You’ve done your homework, Detective.”

  “It’s kind of romantic.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “The guy breaks out of prison. Twice. And both times he goes to see his wife. He must really love her.”

  I shook my head.

  “He doesn’t love her?”

  “He’s addicted to her drama. Her mental state is like a game to him. Shake her up and see where the dice fall. Delusion? Twenty points. Mania? Ten points. Catatonia? One hundred big ones. Archie Lee is not a romantic, Detective.”

  “Patrick. If we’re going to be working together you should call me, Patrick.”

  It took me a second to change gears and catch up with him. “Does that mean you think we’ll be working together?” I tried to sound matter-of-fact, but I knew a hopeful note or two got through.

  “We should get started right away. When can you start?”

  It felt like I’d just passed a job interview and was being asked when I was available to begin my new career. “I called in sick today.”

  Patrick smiled. “Okay, Life Lesson Number One. Don’t—”

  “Life lesson?” I interrupted, suddenly feeling ill. What if this whole conversation had been a massive miscommunication? What if he was just a guy who liked to play with his food? What if he wasn’t the one I’d been sent to meet? Life lessons didn’t sound like Contract Killing 101 to me.

  He bent forward across the table, beckoning for me to lean in. He whispered, so that only I could hear, “Life lessons: how to take one and how not to end up with a life sentence.”

  He leaned back.

  I let out the breath I hadn’t even been aware I was holding.

  “Life Lesson Number One: Don’t get caught.”

  Chapter Eleven

  ONCE HE WAS done consuming his massive breakfast and had gotten three blueberry muffins for the road, Patrick Mulligan paid the diner check and led the way out to the parking lot. Right after we’d inhaled a lungful of second-hand smoke from the patrons huddling outside, sucking down their fix of nicotine, that he suggested we go for a ride in the country.

  I eyed him suspiciously. “Is that some sort of euphemism?”

  “I buy you breakfast, and now you think I want a roll in the hay in return?”

  That hadn’t been what I was thinking, but to be honest the idea wasn’t revolting. There was something about this soft-spoken redhead, maybe it was the way he seemed to be focused on me one hundred percent of the time, something I hadn’t known a man was even capable of, that was sort of sexy.

  I must have spent too long considering his question, because he shook his head, waved for me to follow him, and walked away.

  Like a fool I hurried after him. “I meant, is going for a ride in the country hired-gun speak for I’m going to kill you now.”

  Taking out his keys, he used the remote to unlock a nearby SUV. “I wasn’t planning on it, but if you insist on being such a pain in the ass . . .”

  His delivery was so dry, I wasn’t sure whether the threat was genuine or a joke.

  “We’ll leave your car at the mall. I’ll meet you over by the food court.” He climbed into his vehicle, shut the door, and started the engine.

  I hurried over to my car, still not convinced this wasn’t part of his elaborate plan to execute me. Not for the first time, I wondered what the hell I’d gotten myself into. But, remembering that I was doing this all for Katie, I obediently drove over to the mall. I kept looking in my rearview mirror, but I never spotted Patrick’s truck. I guess spotting a tail isn’t part of my skill set.

  As per his instructions, I drove to the parking lot outside the entrance to the mall’s food court. Mulligan was nowhere in sight. I had no idea what to do next.

  I pulled out my cell phone to see if he’d called to give me more cryptic instructions. He hadn’t. Acco
rding to the call log, I’d missed calls from Aunt Susan, Alice, and Armani. I didn’t bother to listen to the messages they’d left. I had more important things to worry about, like where my cop/killer had gotten to.

  A horn tooted behind me. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I realized my assassination advisor had arrived. I jumped out of the car and into the passenger seat of his SUV.

  “Rule Number One: Don’t get caught.” He pulled out of the parking lot heading west. “That means you don’t talk to anybody. Not your family. Not your friends. Not your boyfriend.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Good, one less person to worry about. You can’t talk about this to anyone.”

  I wondered if the lizard fell under the purview of this rule. “So you’re breaking your own rule by talking to me?”

  “Are your smart-ass tendencies the reason you haven’t stayed at the same job for more than two years at a time?”

  “I get bored.”

  “Part of not getting caught is leading a boring life. You’ve got to stay in your same apartment, keep the same friends, and work the same crappy job.”

  “I hate my job. I’d been planning to look for a new one when the accident happened.”

  He shook his head. “Bad idea. Stay at the insurance company. Nothing more dull than that.”

  “Tell me about it,” I muttered.

  He turned onto Route 80, the interstate that runs across the country. I wondered if he was planning to cross state lines and then kill me. I’d watched enough cop shows to know that crossing state lines always hampered investigations.

  “What’s bothering you?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You pinch your bottom lip between your thumb and forefinger when something’s bothering you.”

  Realizing he was right, I yanked my hand away from my mouth.

  “So what’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t back out now. One of our mutual friend’s employees saw us together at the diner. That seals the deal.”

  “I wasn’t backing out.”

  “Then what?”

  “I was wondering whether you’re taking me to Pennsylvania to kill me.”

  “Why would I need to take you to P.A. to do that?”

  “So you don’t get caught?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. His amusement echoed in the cabin of the vehicle. “So I don’t get caught. That’s rich. You are a unique one, Ms. Lee. Definitely one of a kind.”

  I stared at him. No one had ever said that about me before. I’d been called remarkably unremarkable, but never unique. I wasn’t quite sure how to react to the label, because I was uncertain whether he meant it as a compliment, an insult, or just an observation.

  He grew solemn. “If you’re going to succeed at this, and don’t get me wrong—in order to go on living, you must achieve the stated goal—you’re going to have to trust me. At least a little.”

  “Kind of hard to do considering . . .”

  “I trust you.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “If I didn’t, I would have never agreed to train you. Just having this conversation with you could ruin my life; destroy everything I’ve worked for. You talk to the wrong person and poof!” he snapped his fingers. “My family, my career would be devastated.”

  I hadn’t thought about it that way. I’d been so worried about saving my own hide I’d never considered that he was taking a risk. “So why do it?”

  “I met you. Looked into your eyes. I’m a pretty good judge of character. I think you’re trustworthy.”

  “I wouldn’t . . . I’m not going to . . .”

  “I know.” He shot me a sidelong smile. “I want you to think about something for the rest of this ride. I want you to think about why you’re going to do this thing. What your motivation is. How it’ll feel once you get exactly what you want. Can you do that?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Lifesaver?” He offered me a roll of round mints.

  I shook my head.

  “Enjoy the scenery and fresh air.” He rolled down the windows of the truck.

  The breeze, as we sped along the highway, deeper and deeper into New Jersey’s farm country, ruffled my hair. Actually my hair smacked me in the face. It stung.

  I do not come from fresh-air stock. My people believe in central air, technologically moderated temperatures, and false lighting. We do not venture outdoors except to go from one hermetically sealed building to another. We have gas-burning fireplaces with realistic, hand-painted, concrete logs that give off no smoke or ash.

  I am not a fan of pollen-laden fresh air and the sun that accompanies it.

  Of course I didn’t tell Patrick Mulligan that. I didn’t want to give him a reason to kill me.

  I’d never told my parents either, whenever they’d suggested we take advantage of living in the Garden State. I never complained when we went to a pumpkin patch, or apple-picking, or swimming in a local lake that was no doubt full of slimy seaweed, scaly fish, and who knows what else. Fresh air, and all accompanying activity, was something to be endured in stoic silence.

  I’d swallowed at least two bugs, and my hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed for months, by the time we rolled down a dirt road, pulling to a stop in front of a dilapidated barn.

  “We’re here,” Patrick announced, sliding out of the vehicle.

  I followed suit. Squinting at the sun, I tried in vain to finger-comb my hair.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he murmured softly.

  Despite the bright day, I felt a shadow settle over me. I gulped as he moved to stand closer. I had to tilt my head back to see his face. He looked serious.

  “I need to pat you down.”

  “What?”

  “I need to make sure you’re not wearing a wire.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I just have to know for certain.”

  “I thought you trusted me.”

  The corners of his mouth quirked. “I do, but I’m also not stupid. I can’t go to jail just because a pretty woman says she’s not wired.”

  I blinked at him. Had he just called me pretty?

  He moved to step behind me. “Just stay still,” he whispered in my ear, his minty breath tickling the sensitive skin.

  I jumped a little as his hands cupped my shoulders.

  He froze. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Slowly he slid his palms down my arms until his hands covered mine. Grabbing my wrists, he raised my arms so that I was in a T position. “Stay like that.”

  “Just like when airport security pulls you out of line to search you,” I said.

  “Exactly like that.”

  Except it was nothing like that at all. Because at the airport it was usually an unattractive woman waving some sort of wand over me, but now it was Patrick Mulligan’s hands skimming my sides. I could feel his body heat through the cotton of my shirt. It was a most inopportune time to remember I hadn’t had a date, much less sex, in over a year. I tried to think of something else, while his hands moved lower, but the only thing I could focus on was his touch, gentle, yet determined. I tried to remember if there’d been a ring on those talented hands of his.

  I closed my eyes as I sensed him moving in front of me.

  “You’re trembling,” he whispered. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Keeping my eyes shut, I nodded.

  I held my breath as he started at my ankles this time, moving upward with cursory pats. My whole body was tingling. I thought about cold showers, the day the neighbor ran over my puppy when I was eight, and Katie lying in that big hospital bed. Nothing helped. I was enjoying this intimate act.

  His hands paused at my rib cage. “The most likely place to hide a wire would be between your breasts.”

  My face burned. I stopped breathing.

  Gently, he traced the curves of my bra. His touch felt a hell of a lot more like a lover’s cares
s than a search for a deadly weapon. I bit back a groan as he patted the valley between my breasts.

  I kept my eyes squeezed shut, not wanting to see his expression. It was more pleasant to imagine that he was enjoying this as much as I was, than to see him amused by my stimulated state.

  When he was finished, he cupped my shoulders again. I wondered whether it was possible for body heat to incinerate clothing.

  “All clear.”

  “Told you so.” Making certain I’d be staring straight ahead, I opened my eyes. I’d expected to be eye-level with his chest, but to my surprise he’d bent down to study my face. Those aquamarine eyes were staring right at me.

  “I’m sorry for frightening you.”

  I blinked. I couldn’t very well tell him that the reason I was trembling was because I was turned on. “It’s been a rough week. I’m on edge.”

  Releasing me, he straightened. “Ready to get started?”

  I stared at the barn. Maybe he’d meant his earlier crack about a roll in the hay literally? I was starting to think it was a really good idea.

  “Rule Number One Is?”

  “Don’t get caught.”

  “Good. Now it’s time for Rule Number Two: Dead means dead.”

  Dead means dead didn’t sound particularly amorous to me.

  Opening the back of the SUV, he pulled out a large, black nylon gym bag. “Ever shot a gun before?”

  “Only at carnivals.” I regretted the words instantly. Memories that I did my best to keep buried decimated the barriers of my psyche, as they rushed up at me.

  The carnival. It was like I was back there. I could smell the popcorn and funnel cakes, hear the screams of the rollercoaster riders, feel the BB gun in my hand as I played the shoot-out-the-star game. Marlene was tugging at my sleeve, like a little kid, despite the fact she was fourteen. She was asking if I’d seen Darlene, but I was more concerned that my mother was in her manic moods and was flirting with the young man running the game. I was afraid Mom was going to get herself into trouble. If I’d paid closer attention to the girls. . . .

  I felt dizzy and queasy. I stumbled away, as though there was a way to distance myself from what had happened.