Patel gave the thing a cursory glance. “Yeah?” she said. Her discomfort, and her attempt to hide it, were absolutely delicious.
“Let’s just say I made the meeting between you and Cross after all.”
Again, her energy shifted. Now she was pissed off and a little embarrassed — too much to be scared anymore.
“You bugged our meeting? Jesus, Max, why the hell would you do something like that?”
“That’s your first good question,” he said. “How much time do you have for an answer?” But before she could say a word, he put a hand to her lips. “Wait, I’ll tell you myself. You have no time at all.”
The ice pick, his old favorite, was up and through her larynx before Patel could even scream. Still, her jaw dropped silently open with the effort.
He was on her now, his mouth covering hers, his hand over her nose — a literal kiss of death, but just an ordinary kiss between two lovers in a car to anyone who might have glanced out his window. Her strength, her desire to live, were nothing compared to his. Even the blood loss was minimal — Patel had been too polite to ask about the plastic seat covers in the car.
Or the raincoat Max Siegel was wearing on this dry night.
Once she’d stopped moving altogether, his excitement only grew. He would have loved to climb into the backseat with her while her lips were still warm and her belly still so soft to the touch. He wanted to be inside her right now. Hell, he owned her.
But it would have been a foolish risk, and an unnecessary one at that. He had decided hours ago that tonight was going to be an exception to the usual rules. He’d earned it after all, and this game was his to change. In fact, there were a lot of changes just around the corner.
But first, Anjali Patel was coming home with him — for a sleepover.
Book Three
MULTIPLICITY
Chapter 56
SAMPSON KNEW I was usually awake by five, or even earlier, but it wouldn’t have made a difference today. I could tell he was already at work from the street sounds in the background and the tension in his voice.
“I need a favor, Alex. Maybe a big one.”
Instinctively, I started eating my eggs a little faster while Nana gave me the hairy eyeball. Very early and very late calls in our house are never a good thing.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m listening. Nana is watching me listen. I can’t tell if her evil eye is for you, me, or both of us.”
“Oh, it’s for both of you,” Nana said in a low voice that could have been mistaken for a growl.
“We’ve got a homicide in Franklin Square. A John Doe. It looks a lot like that freaky one I had before, over in Washington Circle?”
My fork stopped in midair. “With the numbers?”
“That’s the one. Any chance I can get you over here for a consult before things heat up too much?”
“I’m on my way.”
John and I never keep track of who owes how many favors to who. Our unwritten rule is, if you need me, I’m there. But make sure you need me.
A few minutes later, I was knotting my tie on the way down the back stairs toward the garage. It was practically still dark out, but light enough to show a mass of slate-gray nothingness overhead — cloudy with a chance of a shit storm.
Based on what I remembered of Sampson’s earlier case, this was exactly the kind of thing MPD could not afford to be investigating right now.
Months ago, a young homeless man had been found beaten to death, with a series of numbers carved carefully across his forehead. It probably would have hit every headline inside the Beltway — if the poor man hadn’t been a street junkie. Even at the department, the case hadn’t generated much heat, which wasn’t exactly fair, but you could drive yourself crazy over “fair” in this capital city of ours.
Now it had happened again. This was a whole new ball game. With the sniper case raging, MPD brass were going to have a hair trigger on anything even remotely sensitive. They’d want to flip this thing up to Major Case Squad before the morning was out.
I figured that was why John called. If the case got transferred to my unit, I could say I was already consulting on it, ask to take the lead, and then put Sampson back in charge. Just our version of creative accounting, and God knows it wouldn’t have been the first time.
Chapter 57