Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the guy with the newspaper peering over the top of it at me. But he didn't recognize me from my poor police sketch because he didn't move in my direction, gesture to his buddy, or whip out a cell phone and call for backup. Still, I added a flirty shimmy to my long stride to give him something else to focus on besides my face.
I waited for a couple of guys carrying briefcases to move away from the front door and stepped inside the Cake Walk. The restaurant was dark and cool after the heat of the midday sun, and I slowed, letting my eyes adjust to the dimmer light. My fingers brushed against the wall by the door, and I listened to the stone's vibrations. Loud, cheery, and brassy, just like the bellows of the restaurant's workers as they shouted orders to each other. The only thing to be concerned about in here was how many calories the triple chocolate cake had-and how fast they'd go straight to your ass.
A counter, not unlike the one at the Pork Pit, ran along the back wall. Behind the glass partition, workers made chicken salad sandwiches on sourdough bread, ladled up bowls of potato soup, and cut slices of bright blackberry pies and moist, golden Mountain Dew cakes. The smell of sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg flavored the air, and I could almost feel the grease on the walls. The red booths, metal tables, and iron chairs were clean, but faded and shiny from wear.
Donovan Caine sat by himself at a booth in the corner, overlooking the street. He'd taken off his jacket and rolled up his white shirtsleeves. A sprinkling of black hair covered his corded, brown forearms. Caine munched on a ham sandwich. A bag of chips, a side of coleslaw, and two pieces of blackberry pie decorated his tabletop, along with a glass of iced tea. A man with a hearty appetite.
I went down the assembly line, opting for a piece of the Mountain Dew cake and a lemonade I wasn't going to get a chance to eat or drink. I kept one eye on Caine, but the detective focused on his food. He didn't look up, not even once. The two watchers outside made no move to come into the Cake Walk, so I decided to go ahead with my plan.
I paid for my dessert, walked over, and plopped my tray on the table. "That seat's taken," Caine growled, without even looking up.
"Don't worry, sugar, I won't stay long. " I slid in across from him.
He recognized my soft voice. I could tell by the way his broad shoulders stiffened underneath the fabric of his white shirt. The way his whole body tensed. The way he gathered his strength down into the pit of his stomach, getting ready to strike.
Donovan Caine put his half-eaten sandwich down onto his plastic plate with slow, careful, calm movements. He laid his hands flat on the tabletop, then raised his hard gaze to mine.
I smiled. "Care if I join you?"
Donovan Caine didn't panic. Didn't sputter, scream, pull his gun, or do anything stupid that would get him dead. Instead, his hazel eyes narrowed, and he regarded me with a cool expression.
"You're either the most daring assassin I've ever met or the stupidest. " His voice, a low, rich baritone, rumbled out of the deepest part of his chest.
My smile widened "You have to be both in my line of work. "
My quip was met with another flat stare. Donovan Caine needed to work on his sense of humor. "Why are you here?" he asked. "To finish what you started the other night?"
"No," I said. "I'm not here to kill you, detective. I just want to talk. " Another hard look. Then his eyes dropped to the gun holstered on his belt. A brief flicker, a quick glance down and nothing more, but I saw it.
"If I were you, detective, I wouldn't do anything stupid, like attempt to pull your gun. " His body tensed, a coiled spring wound that much tighter. "Why not?" I jerked my head toward the window. "See that black Caddy out there? The SUV?" He nodded.
"One of my associates is in that vehicle. He happens to have several guns with him. If I don't leave the restaurant in fifteen minutes, he's going to start shooting the coeds over in the college quad. If I am impeded or followed, he's going to start shooting coeds. If he gets bored or his nose itches, he's going to start shooting coeds. Your choice, detective. "
I didn't mention the fact I also had a knife palmed in my hand and that I could sever his femoral artery under the table quicker than he could draw his weapon. I hoped it wouldn't come to that, though. I needed the detective, and right now he needed me as well, if he wasn't too stubborn to see it.
Caine didn't respond. Instead, he kept staring at me, as if he could discern the secrets to my character just by peering into my eyes. After a few moments, his gaze moved away from mine. Caine studied my face, hair, clothes, committing them to memory for later use. He'd probably have a new, better sketch of me circulating to the media in time for the six o'clock news. But the good detective wasn't above checking out my breasts. A brief flicker, a quick glance down and nothing more, but I saw it.
"Fine," he muttered. "Talk. "
I took a sip of my lemonade. Not nearly tart enough. "I have a proposition for you. " Caine snorted. "Really? What would that be? Letting me choose my own death?"
"No," I replied. "But I thought you might be interested in learning who paid me to kill Gordon Giles. " His gaze sharpened. "You know who that is?"
"Not yet, but I'm going to find out. " "Why?"
"Because they double-crossed me. They sent someone to take me out after I killed Giles. "
Caine laughed-a harsh, bitter sound that could have peeled paint off the walls.
Several people stared at the detective. He waited until they turned their attention back to their half-eaten pieces of pie before he spoke again.
"Does that surprise you?" he asked. "The lack of honor among murderers?"
"No. But that they tried it with me does. I have a reputation. One that's been tarnished by this incident. I'm going to correct that. "
"So you have a name," Caine said in a flat tone. "Some stupid moniker that doesn't mean anything to anyone but you. "
The name the Spider did mean something to me, but not in the way Donovan Caine thought. It had been Fletcher's idea, and I'd gone along with it. He'd called me that because of the rune scars on my palms. He also said I'd reminded him of a spider when we'd first met-all thin arms and long legs hiding in a dark corner. The memory tugged at me, wanting to blossom into something more. But I curled my free hand into a tight fist and willed the unwanted emotions away. Now was not the time to show any sort of weakness.