Night of the Lions (Lions of Manhattan 1)

Cat watched him leave her apartment with a pout. Invitation to dinner. Bribe money. This case couldn’t get any weirder. Jon would have been proud of her for not taking Alex’s cheque. Integrity was the first credo he’d drilled into her skull when she had started working for him. Earn her pay in the traditional, honest way. Deliver the results to the clients.

Her belly knotted unpleasantly. What if she couldn’t solve this case?

If Jon was around, he would know what to do.

Cat bit her lower lip and reminded herself that she couldn’t depend on her brother any more, the way she always had. They had been orphaned when she’d been in middle school, and Jon, who had been a sophomore in high school, had stepped up to the plate as big brother and parent to her. He’d supported them by working various odd jobs. Jon had gone to the police academy when she’d got a scholarship to a local college. They’d remained close even after she’d moved from their house to start a new job. When it hadn’t worked out, Jon had taken her back home and offered her a job as his secretary in the investigation agency he had started. Without him, Cat felt so lost and lonely.

She shook herself out of the self-pity. She had bigger problems to face and a case to solve. Time to move on with her investigation.

Cat stood in the cramped waiting room, shifting from foot to foot while waiting for the receptionist to finish with her rambling on the phone. There was no place for her to sit. All the chairs were occupied by scantily dressed young women waiting for an audition. The women ranged from barely legal to college age. Most of them were blonde, but only a couple looked genuine rather than some product of a beauty salon’s bleaching and colouring. Their faces were slathered in heavy makeup and their skin was Jersey tanned. They were all pretty, sexy, and fake as hell. Cat was the only one who wasn’t dressed like a skank. She was clad in a two-piece beige summer suit and low heels, and her hair was pulled into a tight bun. She was here to interview Oliver Duval, while the girls were auditioning for a hooker character in a low-budget indie movie. Oliver Duval, the fourth person who had been with Cameron Rossi shortly before his demise, was the owner of Hastings—a seedy casting and talent agency that catered to B-movie and indie filmmakers. Duval, who’d entered the country at the same time as Gabriel Larousse and his brothers, had ditched his South African identity and become Alfred Hastings when he’d got his American citizenship.

Cat had tracked Duval’s whereabouts through a favour from Jon’s friend, a cop named Kevin Preston. Cat suspected this interview wouldn’t be easy, but she was determined not to let this one intimidate her, unlike her interview with Gabriel Larousse. Okay, last night’s failed attempt at stealth in that gentlemen’s club hadn’t led to much of an interview. Gabriel had spooked her and made her horny. It had been a totally dumb move on her part that hadn’t helped her investigation.

She hated being a rookie. She missed Jon. Her brother was good at this job. He had twice taken her with him when interviewing suspects and he had been able to coerce the truth from people without them knowing it. Jon had been an ex-cop. He’d been tall, imposing, and drenched with authoritative poise. People saw her and all they noticed was her boobs. If her chest could affect people like a truth serum, she wouldn’t be deep in this shithole. The agency was twelve grand in debt in unpaid bills and such; she hoped that Judith Rossi’s final payment would keep it afloat. Besides, she didn’t have a licence. Jon had. She planned to get one after she successfully completed this job.

If she could solve this one.

“Excuse me.” Cat interrupted the receptionist when the curly-haired, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound whale, who was squashed into a stretch tank top, made no attempt to cut her rambling on the phone any time soon. “I had an appointment with Mr Hastings at ten.” Cat tapped her wristwatch. “Now it’s almost eleven.” Cat had been waiting for more than an hour in this stuffy office, standing. The place was choking her and her feet were killing her.

The receptionist gave her a venomous scowl. “Mr Hastings is very busy at the moment.”

“Could you check it again? It’s been more than half an hour since you talked to him on the phone.”

The receptionist snapped into the receiver, “Hold on a minute, Cherise, I gotta check something.” She put her friend on hold and called her boss’s line. She surrendered at the fourth ring and flashed a vicious smile at Cat. “Mr Hastings isn’t at his desk. He didn’t pick up his phone.”

A pang of annoyance stabbed Cat’s guts. “Is he in the office?”

The receptionist shrugged uncaringly. “He must be. Haven’t seen him outta the joint.”

Jesus. What kind of businessman would hire such a moron to tend to the front of his office? “Could you go to his office and remind him that he has an appointment, since it appears you’re not doing anything at the moment?”

The receptionist looked insulted. “No. I’m busy.”

“With what? Chatting with Cherise about your dead cats?”

“Look, lady—”

“Detective Kovac,” Cat bluffed.

“I’m not going to stand around with you bitching over my shoulder—”

The door burst open and a balding man dressed in a silk suit padded through the crowded waiting room. Cat recognised him as Alfred Hastings, a.k.a. Oliver Duval, from the immigration photo she had on file. Cat quickly tailed him. “Mr Hastings.”

The man ignored her call and kept waddling towards the parking lot.

“Alfred Hastings.”

He waved dismissively. “Sorry, I’m busy. Some other time.”

Fuck this. “Oliver Duval!”

The magic words stopped him in his tracks.

Gotcha.

“What did you say?”

“Your name was Oliver Duval, right? Before you became a US citizen.”