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“No …no.” He flicks his eyes in my direction.
“Who was it, Daddy? Anyone I know?” The way he’s looking at me, I suspect the answer is yes.
“You know I hate bringing up the subject, but it was an old friend of your mother’s.”
“Hmmph. Good riddance, then.” I tuck my napkin under my plate and look his way once more. “Right?”
It’s a cruel thing to say. Whoever has died could be a perfectly innocent individual. But I know they’re not. None of Mother’s acquaintances were innocent.
“Yes. You’re exactly right. Good riddance,” Daddy agrees in a long exhale. “I just hate the reminders.”
I don’t ask who he’s talking about because I’m pretty sure I know.
Daddy just found out from someone, probably his attorney, Val Schultz, who keeps him informed oneverything, that Peter Snowden is dead.
Wait until he learns that King has been killed. When that finally happens, it’ll be hard not to brag to him that the Apple of His Eye is single-handedly responsible. And I can’t lie.
The knowledge that I will be single-handedly responsible for that man’s death excites me more than I care to admit.
Chapter 5
After making sure there aren’t any blond strands poking out from my brunette wig, I lean down to kiss Ritz on the head. Frustrated, he darts away from me and snakes under the bed. He hates kisses but it’s my good luck ritual. It’s the only time I torture him with that kind of affection.
Dressed professionally instead of seductively in a pair of slacks and a blouse, I figure this is a better game plan to win the trust of a pedo. I just hope like hell one of them is in the office today because I spent two hours doing my makeup and altering my appearance as much as possible. I’ve given myself a Marilyn Monroe mole. A press-on, not some cheap eyebrow pencil. If Benjamin or King were to run a finger over my mouth, they’d feel it. I still don’t know which one I’ll be meeting but I have doubts that King would make himself that easy to find. He lays so low he’s probably side-by-side with the devil.
I listen to heavy metal on the way there then experience a rush of excitement as I pull onto East Frye. I turn down the radio so I can get in the zone. I glance in the visor mirror after parking, checking my teeth, my earrings, and my smile. Everything looks right on, genuine, so I head inside.
Unlike other office parks, this one doesn’t have a lobby receptionist. Good. The fewer witnesses the better. On the wall next to the elevator hangs a directory. I find the suite number—215-B—and next to it, white plastic letters that spell “Development Solutions, LLC.” What a dumb name. I wonder what other shady bullshit he and King are running under the crock of shit title.
I turn on my heels and walk the steps to the second floor. The scent of musk and ginger hit my nose, and a quick glance of the numbers on the doors leads me down the hall and around a corner. In suite 215-A, a woman sits at a desk, glancing up briefly as I walk past, eyeing me nonchalantly. I avert my gaze, a familiar hunger rippling through me. The hunger that always ripples through me when I get close to a target.
Seven kills so far under my belt, and all of them have affected me the same way. I roll my tongue over my teeth, one last reminder running through my mind to not get ahead of myself. Pausing at the next set of double doors, I look up to confirm I’m at the right place then tap my knuckle against the door.
A man’s head shoots up from a laptop, flashing a look of surprise. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Benjamin Figueiredo?” I say, stepping inside the door.
He stands, draws his eyes up and down my body. His height is enormous. His frame, built. Christ. I’m going to have to be quick to take this guy down. Quick and wiry.
“I’m Benjamin. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Alejandra Sanchez. I understand you’re the developer of KidSafePact?”
Walking out from behind his desk, Benjamin gives me a better idea of what I’m dealing with. In what looks to be a clean-cut suit, he dresses for success, I’ll give him that. Due to his size, I’m guessing he has his suits tailor made.
“I’m one of them, yes.”
“Well, I’ll cut right to the chase. I wondered if you were interested in selling the app?”
His forehead wrinkles, and he looks me over once again, as if there would be any indication—below the neck—as to how serious I am. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Alejandra Sanchez.”
Clasping his hands together, he leans against the desk. I see a bullseye target tattooed on the back of his right hand. “Sanchez. Spanish?”
I part my lips, about to spout off with something objectionable about how it doesn’t matter what nationality I am. But that won’t win me any brownie points. “Father’s Columbian, mother’s Canadian. Born and raised in America.”
He nods, a smirk forming on his face, eyes drifting over my hair, making me sweat. “Puerto Rican here. Born and raised in Florida.” I detect a faint accent. His heavy brown eyes are making my heart race.
