Desperate Measures. Carla Cassidy
remember that she would throw him under the bus in a minute to get her story.
* * *
IT WAS JUST after five thirty when Monica angled her car into a parking place down the street from D’Angelo’s Restaurant. It was a popular place to dine with great Italian food and reasonable prices, but on a Sunday evening there would be fewer diners.
She’d come away from Jake’s house last night with the gut-burning certainty that he had some knowledge that would help move the investigation forward.
There had been shadows in his deep green eyes that had whispered of secrets, secrets she definitely wanted him to share with her.
Had she worn her royal blue cold-shoulder blouse tonight because she’d had several people tell her she looked sexy in it? Had she decided to wear her black skinny jeans because she knew they hugged her thin but shapely legs? Was it all in an effort to use her womanly wiles on him?
Maybe, but she had to admit part of it was for him to see Monica Wright not just as a sharp investigative reporter, but also as a desirable woman.
Which was completely ridiculous. The very last thing she wanted in her life was a relationship that would suck time and energy away from her work, but there were times she was lonely. It was really rather silly, but something about talking to Jake the evening before had made her think about her loneliness.
Maybe it was because from the moment she had met him, butterflies had danced in her stomach. And she hadn’t felt butterflies about any man in a very long time.
She raised a finger to her mouth and then dropped her hand back to the steering wheel. She was desperately trying to stop chewing her nails. It was hard to have pretty nails when you gnawed them ragged. Instead she now clicked them against her steering wheel as her thoughts continued to cascade in her head.
It’s about the story, stupid. This had been her mantra for the last five years, when she had really gotten serious about what she wanted to do. The advertising on her podcast paid her bills, but she wanted more than just financial security. She wanted respect. And identifying the Vigilante Killer and being responsible for his arrest would gain her that respect.
This was the first case where she didn’t just want to report the facts; rather, she wanted to make the facts. She wanted to hunt the killer.
It was definitely interesting to her that Jake had wanted nothing more than to kick her off his property until she’d mentioned the three other men and the Northland Survivor Group. He had suddenly become quite amenable after that.
He’d started out just being a possible human-interest story. Janet McCall’s phone call had changed all that. Talking to him last night had also changed that. He was so much more than a human-interest story. She had a feeling he might be the key to discovering the identity of the killer.
Her clicking fingernails stopped and she sat up straighter in her seat as Jake’s car pulled into a parking space on the opposite side of the street.
The butterflies took flight again in her stomach as he got out of the car and headed inside the restaurant. His black slacks fit perfectly on his slim hips and long legs, and he also wore a dark green short-sleeved shirt she knew would perfectly match his eyes.
She waited five minutes and then, ignoring the dancing butterflies, she got out of her car and headed for the restaurant’s front door.
It was cool and semi-dark inside. Scents of garlic and onion and rich Italian spices filled the air, and soft music played overhead. A pretty, young hostess greeted her. “Hi, is there just one this evening?”
“No, I’m meeting somebody here. Jake Lamont?”
The hostess smiled again. “Oh yes, if you’ll follow me.”
The hostess guided her through the main dining room and into a smaller private room with a table for two.
Jake stood as they entered, and for just a brief moment she wondered what it would be like if he had gotten the private room because he wanted to know her hopes and dreams...because he wanted to spend time gazing into her eyes and whispering sweet nothings in her ear.
Of course nothing could be further from the truth. He’d gotten the private dining room because they had things to discuss, things like murder and a serial killer working in her hometown.
“This is nice,” she said once the hostess was gone and the two of them were seated at the table.
“I figured it would be good to meet in a neutral place to have this discussion,” he replied. “But how about we eat first and then talk about the main issue.”
“That works for me,” she agreed.
He gestured toward the menu. “I’ve already decided what I want,” he said.
She opened the menu but as she read the offerings, she was acutely aware of his gaze on her. She made her decision, closed the menu and met his gaze.
He looked away and for a moment an awkward silence ensued. Thankfully a waitress entered the room and broke the silence.
She served them water and a mini loaf of garlic bread and whipped butter. She took both their drink and meal orders, and then left the room once again.
“How was your day?” he asked when they were alone again.
She looked at him in surprise. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had inquired about her day. “Do you really want to know or are you just being polite?” she asked.
“I’d really like to know,” he replied.
“My morning was rough. Most of them are rough. I’m not a morning person and everything that can go wrong in a day usually happens then. Yesterday my coffee machine quit working. I bought a new one and this morning I went to make coffee and realized I was out of pods.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Sounds disastrous.”
“Oh, trust me. It was. I am not a happy camper without my morning coffee. Anyway, the rest of my day was good. I’m working on several stories right now and things are coming together nicely on them. How did your day go?”
“It was quiet. I watched a little television and then sketched for a while. I hate Sundays, when the job site is closed down and there’s nothing much for me to do.”
“Do you have family here in town?”
“I don’t have family anywhere,” he replied. “My parents are gone and it was just Suzanna and me. What about you? Do you have family here?”
“My mother died when I was eight, but I have my father and two older, overachieving sisters. Addie and Elizabeth are the apples of his eyes.”
“Which implies that you aren’t?” He raised a dark brow.
“I’ve been his disappointment for years,” she replied, and fought against a hurtful hitch in her heart.
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their meals. He’d ordered the spaghetti and meatballs while she had opted for cheese ravioli. “Oh my gosh, this looks yummy.”
“Can I cut you off some bread?”
“Yes, please.”
He cut her a piece. “Butter?”
“Definitely,” she replied.
He slathered the bread with butter and then handed it to her. As their fingertips touched, the butterflies in her stomach flew once again. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?
“I think Italian food is my favorite type of food,” he said as he cut himself a piece of the bread.
“Italian is good, but Mexican is my very favorite,” she replied. “There’s nothing better than chips and salsa and cheese enchiladas.”
For a few minutes they were quiet as they focused on their meal. On the one hand, Monica wanted to hurry up