Mouth To Mouth. Erin McCarthy
girlfriend, was she in on the con? What did she know? And could she be coerced into talking?
Stuffing the binoculars in his pocket alongside the cigarette butt, he started across the street.
“Where the hell are you going?”
“Stay here a minute, Anders. I’m going in the shop, get a better look at this chick. I’ve got a feeling about her…”
“Yeah, I just bet you’ve got a feeling,” Jerry grumbled. “Fine, leave me out here freezing my ass off while you check out the blonde. I’m waiting in the goddamn car.”
Russ grinned over his shoulder. “Don’t be such a whiner, Jesus. If you’re quiet, maybe I’ll even bring you a coffee.”
“Do that, Evans. So I can spill it on your lap.”
The warm air from the shop hit Russ as he opened the door, enveloping him in the scent of coffee beans and chocolate. The bell announced his entrance and the spike-haired guy working the counter glanced over, gave him a head nod. “Hey, how’s it going?”
“Good.” Russ waited for the blonde to look up, but she didn’t. She was reading a magazine, a strand of her hair wrapped around a finger and pulled across her lips.
She didn’t look capable of theft. She looked sweet and innocent, her fleece scarf making her look like an overzealous Old Navy employee on her coffee break. But Russ knew looks were deceiving. He’d seen the most evil hearts lurking behind pretty faces.
His fingers were still frozen, so he went to order himself a coffee. Then he would feel the blonde out, see where she fit in this puzzle so he could track down Dean. The chalkboard menu was riddled with flavors and blends, iced and hot, mochas and javas and lattes, and he gave up trying to read it. “I just want a cup of coffee. Black.”
The guy wiped his hands on his green apron. “What kind of bean? You can pick from these.” He pointed to the case of seventeen different bean flavors.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Scanning the variety of French this, vanilla that, winter roast—whatever the hell that was—and hazelnut, he said, “Just give me something with no flavor. Something that just tastes like coffee.”
The clerk smirked a little. “You know, there’s a Perkins down the street. They have that bottomless coffeepot deal going on.”
Wiseass. Russ was debating flashing his badge to scare the little punk when he heard someone call, “Russ!”
Startled, he turned to see the blonde rising from her table, a welcoming smile dancing over her face. “I’m so glad you made it, Russ! I’ve been really looking forward to meeting you.”
What the…
Knock him over with a fucking feather, the woman knew his name.
She reached him, took both of his hands and squeezed. She knew his name, looked pleased to see him. He was holding hands with Dean’s girlfriend and didn’t have a clue what was going on. “Hi,” he said.
Wow, that was really thinking on his feet.
“Maybe she can pick a bean for you,” the coffee clerk said.
Russ turned and shot a glare at the guy, who just shrugged.
“Oh, go ahead and get your coffee, Russ. I’m sitting right over there when you’re done.” She pointed to her table, gave him another squeeze and smile, then let go.
How the hell did she know his name, he wondered as he watched her walk. And how had she poured herself into those black pants? That was one beautiful backside. Which was probably the point. Maybe her job was to lure him, confuse him, distract him with sex.
It wasn’t going to work. Or at least not completely. He was only slightly distracted.
“Give me any damn coffee you want,” he told the clerk.
If the woman was Dean’s girlfriend and knew he was a cop, why would she acknowledge him? To throw him off balance?
The coffee boy handed him a cup with a gripper wrapped around it and punched buttons on the register. “Three twenty-six.”
“For a cup of coffee?” That pulled him out of his jumbled thoughts. “That is a total rip-off.”
“Perkins, man, I tried to tell you.”
Russ paid reluctantly, figuring that worked out to about a quarter a sip. Anders wasn’t going to be getting any coffee at three twenty-six a cup. The blonde was folding up her magazine, tucking it into an enormous oatmeal-colored bag. To buy time, since he didn’t exactly know what to say to her, he walked slowly then set his cup down on her table.
She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Did I mess up the time? I can’t keep track of anything it seems, but I thought we said seven.”
So she was Laurel. They had known nothing about this woman, just that Dean’s latest victim had found a note among the scattered junk he had abandoned before skipping out with a cool ten grand that didn’t belong to him. The department investigating Dean had lucked out when the victim had come forward. Most were too embarrassed, but this one had been willing to divulge all she knew, including the note Dean had written.
Laurel
Wednesday
7 @ Starbucks, 117th
They’d been waiting outside based on that, hoping Dean would show and they could take him down to the station for a few questions. Then slap his ass in a cell.
But there was no Dean, and who was this woman?
Russ decided to play dumb for a while and see what information he could get from her. He didn’t want to give her the upper hand if she was Dean’s partner, though his gut was already screaming that didn’t fit. Something was way off, and he had to figure out what it was.
Studying the red-and-purple cubic art print to the left of her head, he rubbed his jaw, proceeding with caution. “You’re right. It was seven. Sorry I’m late.”
She touched his hand on the table, gave it a soft stroke before letting go. “Can you face me when you speak? I’m deaf, remember?”
Deaf? No, he didn’t remember that. He’d never known that. Jesus. Russ snapped his jaw shut. For a split second he wondered if she was lying, but then he realized she had the flat, nasal voice that characterized deaf speech.
Her hand moved across the side of her face in a sign language gesture he didn’t understand. “I can’t read your lips when you’re turned.”
Due to quick wit and good reflexes, he only sat there blank-faced for twenty seconds or so. Then even though he didn’t know if he was coming or going, he forced a smile onto his face. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. And I’m sorry I’m late.” He gave a little laugh that sounded more demented than charming, but he was trying, despite feeling poleaxed. “This isn’t a good first impression, is it, Laurel?”
He tossed her name in to confirm what he was already certain of—that it belonged to her. Her lack of reaction to it now told him she really was Laurel. Being this close to her also made it obvious she wasn’t plain like Dean’s other victims, not by any stretch of the imagination. And as far as he knew, none of the other women had been deaf either. He wasn’t sure if that was relevant, but he wanted to know.
If she was a victim, that is.
“You’re taller than I pictured,” she said, her hands gesturing while she spoke. “And cuter.”
Somehow she didn’t make it sound like a compliment. Yet she was smiling coyly from under long, thick lashes. There was something about her…an innocence, or naïveté, that made him uncomfortable. Which was freaking ridiculous. For all he knew, she was as big a con as Dean. Innocence could be faked.
Deciding to test it, he pushed back the bill of his baseball hat and readjusted it.