Her hair is down now, while it had been pulled back, and with her apron gone, I can see she’s actually wearing a black dress.
“Who are you? And do you actually work here?”
“No, but I know the manager. And I locked up and turned off the cameras, so we won’t be interrupted. They’re dead this time of day anyway.”
Most people think turning off the cameras intimidates the person they’re talking to. They forget that the person across from them might enjoy the freedom it offers. I ignore the ice cream for good reason. I’d prefer not to have my throat ripped out before my wedding day.
For all I know, I’m sitting across from the killer and she just offered me the newest flavor of ice cream, named after her hobby of killing people. Death wish.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I stare at my could-be killer, and she shifts nervously in her seat. I shove the ice cream in front of her. “You eat it. Focus on it and I’m certain you’ll relax. Sensorial stimulation, such as the cold of the ice cream, can ease anxiety. It actually lowers cortisol levels.”
It’s not bullshit. It’s a real thing. She grabs the spoon and takes a bite. “It’s good,” she murmurs. “I hadn’t actually tried it. I’d just heard it was fabulous. They were right.”
She hadn’t actually tried it.
This means she started out our meeting with a lie by telling me otherwise. Which might not seem like a big to deal to some, but to me, it shows her ease with lies.
And I hate lies.
And liars.
But at least the ice cream wasn’t militarized. That would have sucked.
“There’s a lot I need to tell you,” she says, after another bite. “You might want to take notes.”
“Just tell me the juicy stuff, like who murdered Emma, Naomi, and Rip.”
“It’s not that simple,” she declares.
Kane’s words.
Not her best choice of words.
“Said everyone ever trying to explain why they lied, cheated, or killed someone.”
“I didn’t kill them,” she objects instantly. “God, no. I didn’t kill them.”
“Okay then. What’s your name? And how do you know the victims?”
“Off the record,” she insists. “I’ll give you what you need to know off the record, but on the record, I want to say I know nothing.”
“What is your name?”
“You don’t need my name to take down the information.”
“Some might agree. I don’t.”
Her lips part and she hesitates. I reach for my coat.
“What are you doing?” she asks urgently.
“I need to know who I’m dealing with or this meeting is over.”
“Oh God.” She groans. “Fine. Marilyn Lennox. I work here in the city. I’m a CPA at Becker, Abrams, and Newman.”
Marilyn Lennox. Now I have a name to a face and for all I know, I’m sitting across from the killer.
“They’re high profile,” I comment, seeing her job and her life as fitting a theme, as I add, “Clients that are the rich and famous.”
“Yes, I know. Which is why I can’t get involved in this.”
“And yet you already are,” I point out.
She slides her hand under her hair and rubs her neck. “Not really, but I know enough to be scared.”
I set the cup down more decisively. It’s not that damn good and this meeting is becoming tedious. “Can we just get to it?”
“Promise it’s off the record.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Off the record. Talk.”
“I dated Rip Vaughn.”
“When?” I asked.
“We broke up over the summer.”
“And saw each other for how long?” I ask.
“About six months,” she says. “And we actually got pretty serious.” Her hand trembles and she shoves it under the table.
“That’s surprising, considering he was a player,” I say, looking for an emotional reaction from her that speaks louder than a shaking hand that could be nothing more than nerves over a lie.
“Yes,” she says softly. “He liked women, but I was pretty willing to play to his many different interests. He liked his sex games, too, which you’ll understand as I continue. We were—” she hesitates.
My brows lift. I learned that from Kane, but it took practice. It’s not as easy as it looks.
“We were swingers. I guess I’m a bit of a player, too, but we did it together. Then it wasn’t cheating.”
Swinging is at the core of numerous murders I’ve investigated over the years and it’s rarely a single interest as she’s already indicated. My theory of Banking the Billionaire being a secret sex game is looking more and more likely, I think.
“We had,” she begins and then hesitates, “oh, I don’t really know what we had now. I was going to say we were different, but that’s what every lonely heart says. He wasn’t the person I thought he was and I feel kind of shitty saying that after he died.”
“Don’t expect me to correct you and make you feel better. That’s not what I do. How did you meet him?”