Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
“Marco Russo?” I ask, unable to keep the question to myself.
“You know him?”
“It’s my job to know who’s who in this city.”
“Then you’ll know it’s unwise to interfere with his interests.” There’s something cold in her tone now, a warning. She rips her arm out of my grasp.
An unexpected flare of irritation rises in my chest. “And are you one of those interests, Ms. Reid?”
“That’s really none of your business, Mr. Callahan.” She slides out of the booth, adjusting her scarf.
“It becomes my business if it connects to Elizabeth Short,” I say sharply.
Lena pauses, studying me with renewed intensity. “Be careful, detective. Curiosity did worse than kill the cat in this town.”
“I’ve never been particularly fond of cats.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “No, you strike me as more of a lone wolf.”
“Wolves aren’t known for backing down.”
“But they are known for getting shot by hunters.” She gets to her feet. “If we’re done with the animal metaphors, I really do need to go.”
I stand as well, leaving enough cash on the table to cover our coffees and a generous tip. “I’ll walk you out.”
Outside, the morning fog has finally surrendered to the California rays, making me wince at the light. Sunset Boulevard gleams with promise and pretense in equal measure. Convertibles with their tops down cruise past, driven by men in expensive suits and women in even more expensive dresses, all with purpose, all with dreams, all with secrets.
“How can I reach you if I have more questions?” I ask as we stand on the sidewalk. “You have my card but I don’t have a number for you.”
Lena considers me for a moment. “You’re a PI. I’m sure you know my number by now. You at least knew my address.”
“You’re not listed. But I’m sure I can do some digging. Might just be easier if you gave it to me yourself.”
She looks up and down the street, seemingly nervous. Then she makes a motion with her hand. “Give me your card.”
I provide one from my jacket pocket. She takes it, turns it over, and takes out a red lipstick from her bag, writes a number on the back before returning it to me.
“Don’t smudge it.”
I take it from her. “I’m honored.”
“Don’t be. I’m doing it for Elizabeth.”
A black Cadillac rolls to a stop at the curb beside us, its engine purring with expensive menace. Lena automatically flinches, her lips forming a tight line. The driver’s window lowers to reveal a square-jawed man with brilliantined hair and cold eyes.
Marco Russo.
“Lena,” he calls, not bothering to exit the car. “A little birdie told me you were here. Lucky I was in my office. Come on. Let’s go.”
She doesn’t immediately move, her eyes still on mine. For a moment, I have the strangest sensation of something passing between us, a strange familiarity.
Then acquiescence.
Finally she slips on her sunglasses and turns, walking to the Cadillac with unhurried grace, hips swaying under her coat.
Russo’s gaze shifts to me, assessing, territorial. I meet it with professional neutrality, though something primitive and possessive stirs unexpectedly in my chest. His eyes narrow slightly before the window rises and the car pulls away, carrying Lena with it.
I watch until the Cadillac disappears into the Hollywood traffic, trying to ignore the irrational surge of…what? Jealousy? Concern? Both seem equally inappropriate for a woman I’ve met exactly twice.
Yet as I walk back to my car, her scent—something feminine and sexy, like night jasmine and vanilla—lingers in my consciousness. The memory of her voice, the way her eyes seemed to see past my carefully constructed professional facade, the electricity that sparked when our hands briefly touched as she returned my card—all of it occupies more mental real estate than it should.
I need to focus. Elizabeth Short’s killer is still out there. The Europeans she mentioned could be the key, and Lena Reid knows more than she’s telling me. Far more. I can’t afford to be distracted by inappropriate attractions or territorial impulses toward a woman who’s clearly involved with one of Mickey Cohen’s enforcers.
Still, as I slide into my car and start the engine, I find myself looking at the phone number written on the back of my card in Lena’s red script. Careful not to smudge it, I tuck it into my wallet rather than my case notebook—a small but telling decision.
The morning stretches ahead, filled with leads to follow, witnesses to interview, breadcrumbs to gather. But as I pull into traffic, joining the stream of dreamers and schemers that populate this city of fallen angels, I know with unsettling certainty that I’ll be seeing Lena Reid again. Soon.
And not just for the sake of the investigation.
7
LENA
Marco’s hand tightens around my upper arm. Even through my coat, I can feel his fingers digging into my flesh, his attempt to mark me.