Page 8 of Booked for Murder

I hauled Ajani home, muttering curses every single painful step of the way. The staircase up to my apartment classified as hell, and my precious bundle of joy howled her dismay over the disruption to her day. Once I closed and locked my door, I unleashed the beast, and she cowered and whined in her carrier, beginning our usual weekend routine.

She expected me to crack open a can of wet food for her enjoyment and coax her out, and once she enjoyed her meal, I would serve her for at least one hour with the brush. Laughing over how I’d become the servant of a cat rather than the bodyguard of a man, I limped across my apartment and began my Friday evening ritual despite it being Tuesday. As I didn’t want to be anywhere near my home turf with my ex-boss around, I hoped she would accept my offerings without much of a fuss.

Apparently, nobody had given her breakfast yet, as Ajani attacked her food with the fervor of the truly starved, purring and growling with every bite. As my cat had severe food territory issues, I left her alone, sat on the couch, and fiddled with her favorite brush while waiting for her to finish her meal.

She went from devouring breakfast to ruling my lap in the blink of an eye, and I began my sacred duty as her servant to brush out her thick, long coat. When I’d first gotten her, the vet had warned me many cats hated the brush, especially feral strays like my baby. For whatever reason, my feral stray associated the brush with happiness, and if I stopped stroking her, she’d rub her face against it until I resumed my duties.

In many ways, Ajani represented freedom.

A for life bodyguard didn’t get the little things, including a cat. I’d existed for one purpose, and anything that might distract me from that purpose had been eradicated. A dog? I might walk the dog when I was supposed to be watching my boss’s back. A cat? I’d have to feed it, pay it attention, and do the little things pets enjoyed, like hour-long stints with the brush.

Heaven forbid if anyone made Bradley Hampton wait for an hour because of a cat.

Then again, I’d enjoyed the moments someone made him wait. His expressions had ranged from annoyance to fury, and every time someone tripped his trigger because he had to wait, I recognized how power worked.

Those who made Bradley Hampton wait, for a time, held the power—and he’d known it. He hated when anyone held power over him at all. Sometimes, I had held the power.

When it came to his personal preferences and his safety, his safety had always trumped his preferences, and I became a mountain he couldn’t climb. My last act of service had been one of those mountains.

Even if he’d protested my decision, I would have done the same.

Some choices weren’t choices at all, and I’d meant my vow.

I stroked Ajani, wondering how much of my memories had vanished in the crash. I’d lost some, that much I’d pieced together. The moment of the crash itself remained seared in my mind, but I recognized missing puzzle pieces existed.

I’d been discussing something with Bradley in the moments before the crash. It had been an important something, something that’d shocked me almost as much as the realization I couldn’t avoid the crash and could only position the car in such a way he’d walk away despite knowing it’d likely lead to my death.

The doctors had warned me those memories might never return and had done their best to convince me I should let them go, just like I needed to let go of any hope of walking without impairment. Originally, I shouldn’t have been able to walk at all. I refused to accept the ‘without impairment’ part of my life’s equation. Maybe I’d die old and crippled, but I wouldn’t live without hope of beating the odds.

I could walk.

I’d already beaten the odds once.

Ajani let me off lightly, only requiring forty minutes of attention before she decided the only place for her most splendid majesty was my bed. I gathered up the fur I’d plundered from her coat, threw it out, grabbed my cane, and headed for the door. A trip to the main branch, located two miles down the street from my branch, would eat up time, get me out of the area, and get the ball rolling on my new projects, the ones I might even be able to talk the system into allowing without much of a fight.

My plan would resurrect unused space the library system paid for, allow us to add more books that would draw in additional readers, and make the senators happy. Well, the surviving ones. I’d be the bearer of bad news if my boss hadn’t already notified his bosses of Senator Godrin’s death. As I could either get a fight or cooperation, I brought a journal and a few pens with me for notes on what my realistic budget would be, how much space they’d want to dedicate to the types of archives the senators would like, and how else I might be able to justify why our small branch had the staff we did outside of our proximity to the Met, our tendency to draw politicians, and our heritage building.

It would not be a fun afternoon, but it beat the body at work.

Unfortunately for me, I would have to brave the streets to catch a cab. One day, I would get a phone. That day was not today—maybe.

No, on second thought, today was the perfect day to get a phone. I’d need it.

Three

Enter, you mutty blight.

The cab cost me a fortune, but it beat having to walk by my workplace to get to the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building, which was the heart and soul of the New York Public Library. I loved the place. If a building could possess magic, the main branch’s building topped the charts with its elegant exterior and breathtaking interior. After I tangoed with the accounting department and one of the overseers of the system’s budget and development of branches, I’d spend some time in the computer lab to learn a little more about Senator Godrin and who might want him dead.

I’d lived in the ivory tower long enough to understand somebody wanted to make a point in the senator’s murder, a very public point. I expected our usual patrons would scatter so they wouldn’t be the next to end up decorating the library’s walls. The loss of patrons would put my branch in a precarious position, although it would give us the time we needed to complete renovations on the unused rooms of the building. We had an entire floor we could open for stock if I could convince the skinflints running the main branch to cooperate.

The senator’s death might even backfire, drawing people to the building to see where the man had been killed.

I hated it could go either way.

After a brief stop at the front desk, where I warned the librarian about the senator’s death and the other items on my to-do list, I headed for the administrative offices hidden throughout the building, out of view of the patrons. Rather than undergo the typical dance, the receptionist sent me to Beatrice’s office.

On a good day, Beatrice hated me. On a bad one, she likely planned my murder.