“I tried,” I said, which was sort of the truth. “He wasn’t available.”
Angela narrowed her eyes. “How’d you say you found my phone number?”
“Ms. London, if I could ask you about Edward Cope.”
“Edward Cope is dead,” she clarified.
For fuck’s sake.
“Yes,” I agreed. “He’s very dead. About his skull—”
She slid off her barstool, nearly crashing to the floor. I lunged and grabbed her forearms, keeping her standing on heels that were destined to kill her.
“I. Didn’t. Take. It.” She punctuated each word by drawing closer and closer to my face, until the smell of cheap alcohol wafted from her lips. “Understand?”
“Yes.” I looked down, and her pointy, professionally styled nails dug into the sleeves of my coat. “Where is it?” I dared to ask.
The question made her smile.
Wickedly.
Dangerously.
I shouldn’t have—
Angela leaned in, pressing her mouth close to my ear. “If I knew…,” she said lightly, in an almost singsong voice. It was deranged.
I swallowed and tilted my head to look at her. “Where’s Daniel?” I asked very quietly.
“Daniel. Daniel is….” Angela considered the question for another moment. “On his back, with a one-inch dick tickling his asshole.”
I shook my head and looked away.
She laughed, stepped back, and grabbed the counter to steady herself. “I have to piss,” she declared. Angela turned and wobbled from foot to foot as she struggled across the room to the dimly lit sign indicating where the bathrooms were around the corner.
I sat on the barstool as the bathroom door slammed shut behind Angela. I noticed the large purse she’d left on the seat to her right, which had been blocked while she sat at the bar. I stood, moved two seats closer, and opened the purse. Pawing through a drunk woman’s bag wasn’t my idea of a good time, but I neededsomething.
Anything that would help me connect Angela to past or future events.
Wallet. Spare change. Gum—lots of gum. Half a dozen packages, all cotton-candy flavor. I shoved those back in and tried again. Tampons.Come on. I retrieved a ring of keys and nearly put them back before the weight of them gave me pause.
It seemed to be too many keys for one person. There were some charms attached that advertised it as definitely belonging to Angela—a pom-pom, Minnie Mouse, one that said “angel” in glittery, fake diamonds, and a massiveAin what I suspected was a fake gold polish. But then I realized the excess in keys was due in fact to the second ring attached. Four additional keys. No charms but for anFthat matched theA.
Why did Angela have Frank’s key-ring?
I looked up, intending to watch the bathroom door, but made eye contact with the bartender by mistake. Caught red-handed.
“She’s too drunk to drive,” I blurted out, holding up the keys. “I’m holding on to these so she doesn’t get any ideas.”
If he was suspicious, I must have come across sincere enough. “Good call. She’s been pounding whiskeys for a while. I was about to cut her off.”
When the bartender turned his back, I got to my feet, quickly unhooked Frank’s keys, and shoved Angela’s ring back into her purse. I pocketed his, dropped some cash on the counter for the soda water, and slipped out the front door as Marilyn Manson asked if I was willing to kill for him.
Chapter Ten
I LEFTSt. Marks in a hurry, crossed Third Avenue where the street morphed into East Eighth, and didn’t stop until I’d reached the famous Cube at Astor Place. I moved around the massive, ugly sculpture and let it block me from view so I could take a moment to catch my breath and check the timer app.
Forty-two hours remained.
