er, throwing her off-guard. “My turn. Who are you?” I stop just two feet in front of her so I can stare down, to remind her who’s in control, and because I need to see her features up close. The nagging familiarity is wiggling in the back of my head, like an illusive song.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“Why were you following Jack Keller?”
Her eyes widen a fraction at the mention of his name. “No.”
All right. “I tried to play fair. Just remember that.” I reach for her, and she does as expected, throwing her hands up to block. She’s been trained in defense. I hesitated a moment too long at the warehouse, and that lapse in judgment cost me.
I move in quickly and wrap an arm around her waist, taking her to the floor. I force her onto her stomach, making sure to pin her legs down with my knee to prevent her kick this time.
“Bastard!”
“That’s one name I can live with.” I reach into her back pocket and dig out the leather billfold I felt there earlier. Most women keep their IDs and shit in a purse. Cops, on the other hand, like to keep important identification on their person.
I brace an elbow between her shoulder blades to keep her pinned while I riffle through her wallet. I tweak out her license. “Makenna Davies. Suite one-twelve in Lower Queen Anne. Nice place. And let’s see here.” I slide a laminated card out. “You’re a private investigator.”
“Son of a bitch—”
“You have one filthy mouth.” I smack her ass before I release her. “Must be a residual thing from your cop days.” Once I have all the pertinent information, I stand and back away, getting out of her reach.
She staggers to her feet and pushes her hair out of her face. She breathes hard, her chest rising and falling. I notice the way her torn shirt hangs open to reveal her trim abdomen.
Too close. I step back to prevent her from getting a clear look at my face.
“How did you end up at that warehouse tonight?” I demand. The limited patience I managed with her is gone. She’s a cop—or was one once. Most PIs don’t carry a piece. I need to know why she had that piece trained on Keller.
“Keller—whoever that man was—killed my client’s husband,” she finally says.
I study her. “Jennifer Myer is your client.”
“Yes.”
I knew Keller was going after Myer. Keller had to come out of hiding to get to him, and that’s why I left Myer alive for as long as I did. As bait. A sacrifice I’ll soon remedy.
But Myer’s wife is a startling revelation.
I decide this woman is telling the truth. Mostly. I toss her black billfold at her feet and turn to get the candle. I scoop it off the floor, the pain between my shoulder blades coming alive. Teeth gritted, I dig out a lighter and face her. The challenge clear in my wide stance.
“You want light. I want answers.” I flick the lighter. The small flame dances between us, casting her shadow against the wall. “What do you know about Milton Myer?”
Her gaze squints as she tries to peer past the flame. I hold the lighter off to my right, keeping the glow away from my face.
With a defeated breath, she crosses her arms, dragging her torn shirt up to bare more of her skin. “Tonight was my first night on the job. I was hired by Myer’s wife to catch him cheating.”
Plausible. Myer was more than a cheat. He was a vile, sadistic devil.
“But instead,” she continues, “I watched Myer get shot.”
“And your brave little self followed the murderer to take him in yourself,” I reason.
She nods weakly.
“You witnessed not one but two murders. That’s shitty luck for an ex-cop.”