Nothing in her posture or expression hinted at the seriousness of what had taken place yesterday. She set out the sandwiches and unwrapped her own, taking a bite and closing her eyes as if it was the best thing she’d ever eaten. It defied reason as to how Lyla ate that amount of artery-clogging cheese and bacon squeezed between a buttery croissant and still stayed fit. Especially because she was allergic to working out...or so she told him.
“You gonna eat, brah?” Kekoa took a hearty bite of his own sandwich, chewing before he smiled. “Or is that how you keep that handsome mug of yours so trim?”
“Sit down, Nicolás, and eat. You can’t defend my honor if you don’t have any food in your body.”
Defend her honor? Lyla was fully capable of doing that all on her own, but it didn’t stop the comment from warming his cheeks.
“See?” Kekoa flexed. “That’s what I tell Elinor all the time.”
Nic sat next to Lyla just as Kekoa began wiggling in his chair like a toddler. “Brother, do your hips ever stop moving?”
Kekoa’s left brow shot up. “This is my food dance.”
“Food dance?” Nic took a sip of his smoothie.
“Ono grindz makes me happy.” Kekoa winked at Nic. “Your hips would move too if you ate something other than lettuce in a cup.”
“New mission,” Lyla said around a bite. She shimmied her shoulders. “Find out what kind of food will make Nicolás dance.”
“This looks great, Lyla.” Jack grabbed a sandwich and dropped in his chair. “Walsh is on his way up.”
Nic tugged his brim, grateful for that conversation to come to an end.
“Good morning,” Walsh said, walking in. At the conference table, he paused. “I apologize for my tardiness, but I wanted to pay a quick visit up to Paterson.”
“Any new information?” Nic asked.
Walsh’s gaze flickered to him for a second before looking away. “No new information about the letter.”
“So the brick was just a final kick-in-the-shins gift to me?” Lyla sat back, folding her arms across her chest. “What a jerk.”
Lyla’s name for Jerry was a lot tamer than the ones running through Nic’s head.
“Did he leave a note?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Walsh sat and removed his glasses. “Why?”
Lyla shrugged. “Just trying to decide if I should be flattered that I was the last thing on Jerry’s mind before he offed himself.”
The muscles in Nic’s shoulders bunched at Lyla’s grim humor. Or maybe it was her cool composure that had him stressed. Three years ago, when Jerry’s threats first arrived in the mail, the words written on those pages nearly drove him to pay Jerry Miller a visit in jail, but Lyla never blinked. Never shuddered, at least that he could tell, at the man’s attempt to terrorize her. Even after yesterday’s tangible threat, she was chill. Just like she’d been while facing the barrel of Castillo’s gun.
“There’s still someone out there who did Jerry’s bidding.” Nic looked at Walsh. “We can’t dismiss the possibility that he may have set up more threats or attacks.”
Lyla frowned. “Or maybe whoever Jerry paid to send me this last message didn’t get the memo that he was dead.” She shrugged. “I have to believe that if Jerry really wanted to hurt me, he would’ve done it before now and certainly would’ve lived to see it.” She got up and went to the acrylic board, where she pulled down a copy of the threatening note taped there. “This was nothing more than his final, lame attempt to scare me.”
The logic behind Lyla’s argument made sense, but Nic didn’t think his apprehension would go away until whoever threw the brick was caught and questioned.
Director Walsh slipped his glasses back on, and Nic caughtthe familiar worry weighing down his features. The man was like a second father to Lyla, and even though he treated her just as professionally as the rest of them, there was always an added element of concern when it came to her.
“Garcia’s right.” Walsh held up a hand as Lyla’s posture stiffened, her lips parting to protest. “But so are you. I’d like to believe Jerry’s threats died with him, but until the police collar the person responsible for the vandalism, I want you to be vigilant.”
Jack turned to Kekoa. “Where are we on identifying the hooded character outside our building?”
Kekoa tapped on his silicon keyboard. “With the help of the police, I got permission to pull CCTV footage for a six-block radius from here.” The screens overhead came to life with video. “Two cameras caught the same person...here.” He paused a video, and Nic zeroed in on the hooded figure walking around the corner of the Acacia Building near West Wing Café on the corner of D Street. “Unfortunately, he keeps his head down, so I can’t get a clear shot of his face. But the timing matches. Metro PD gave me access to their traffic cams to track the individual. Hopefully we’ll see him get into a vehicle or at least be able to track the general direction he headed. Get an image of his face.”
Nic studied the hooded figure. Based on the newspaper stand next to him, he wasn’t very tall and probably not very heavy either, though it was hard to tell with the baggy clothes. Young? Throwing a brick through someone’s windshield was a juvenile approach.
“What about Miller’s son?” All eyes turned on Nic. He folded his arms across his chest. “In his file, last night”—he looked at Lyla—“you said Jerry had a son and a daughter, right?” She nodded. “Old enough to be in high school? Might fit the physical description of the unsub in the footage.”
