Beauty and the Assassin

I open the door, which swings wide without a sound and reveals a short hallway. I step out and walk carefully and quietly down the cool marble floor of the corridor. Some kind of dramatic classical music is coming from the sound system. Something with an orchestra and piano. The volume’s set low enough for a conversation.

No sign of Tolyan, but there is a kitchen off to my left. If I can just get there undetected, I might be able to grab a knife. I’ve never used one in a fight, but having one would be better than nothing, even though—

“You’re up,” comes Tolyan’s voice from ahead of me.

I turn my head and see the sunken living room. He’s seated in an armchair, his jacket gone. One ankle is propped on a knee, and he has a glass of water on a small table by his seat. He’s holding a fat cigar in one hand. The picture of an indolent man enjoying a quiet, cultured evening.

It belies the apex predator impression he made at the hotel. But I guess there’s no detour to the kitchen, then. He’s too relaxed. Probably has a gun nearby.

The Dobermans slide past me, padding toward him, bobbed tails wagging like crazy.

He puffs out smoke. It doesn’t smell anything like a cigarette. More like heavily roasted nutmeg and hazelnut with a hint of coffee.

He tilts his chin at the sectional near him. “Sit.”

“I’d rather stand.” It’s a pathetic attempt at trying to regain some control, especially since I sound shaky. But I have to try. I do what I want, buster, not what you want.

His pale eyes glimmer with amusement and something else I can’t identify. “There’s no needle hidden in the cushions, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I don’t trust you,” I say, feeling like a cat with its hackles raised in front of a huge, mean dog.

“Then why did you ask me for help?”

That shuts me up. I don’t have a good answer, except I’m really scared and tired of running. And the package from Roy freaked me out. He’s never sent anything this fast. Never rummaged through my things, either. Or if he did, he didn’t let me know.

“Sit,” Tolyan says again. “Let’s talk. It’s more comfortable here than the parking lot. And my home has better amenities.”

Since he seems a tad more willing to engage, I park my butt on the edge of the sectional. If I’d known he likes to be comfortable while talking, I would’ve taken him to a Starbucks next to his office.

But first things first. “What happened to my clothes?”

“Ah. I’m keeping them. Insurance.”

“For what?”

“To prevent you from running to the police and telling them you saw me at the house of the man you claimed I ‘suicided.’” He makes air quotes with his fingers.

I look down, my mouth going dry. “I only said that because you were being difficult.” In retrospect, it was a seriously dumb move. We were alone in the lot. He’s strong and skilled enough to kill a man. He could’ve killed me easily and disposed of my body.

Another thing occurs to me, chilling for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold air blowing from the vents. Don’t killers prefer to tie up their loose ends, like witnesses?

And I just blurted out what I saw. I even threatened to report him.

Cold sweat slickens my palms. I steal a glance at Tolyan. He’s quietly puffing his cigar, his eyes narrowed. Maybe he does intend to kill me. He’s just taking his time, trying to figure out how to make it look like a suicide. He probably doesn’t want to use the same method he used back at that house again. It might look too suspicious.

“But I’m not really going to tell anybody,” I add, licking my lips. I’m so jittery, I think even my tongue’s trembling. “It isn’t like I have friends or anything.”

“You didn’t say you were telling your friends.” There’s a short, heavy-looking spring on th

e table beside him. He picks it up and starts squeezing it like one of those grip-builder things. “You did mention the police.”

“I don’t have any cop friends, either.” I force a smile, but my facial muscles are twitching.

“I do.” He smiles. “Lots of them.”

“Good for you…?” Shit. Maybe he’s like that serial killer character I read about in a novel. That Dexter guy. He only kills other criminals, ones who deserve to die. And unlike in the story, maybe cops in real life actually like that. It prevents tax dollars from being wasted on feeding and jailing criminals.

For all I know, the man who died last night was a serial killer or rapist. Not that that makes me feel much better…