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I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“He strung me along, you know. Told me he was going to marry me. Then, bam, starts knocking me around when I find out he’s already married. But what do you care about that? Nothing. You probably have a girl back home that you treat no better. Get out of here, you piece of trash.”
When I look at her, I still see the woman I mistook her for. I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. A drip of sweat runs over the curve of her cheek. Her breathing is rapid and shallow. She’s scared.
An assassin, that’s what she sees.
“You’re the one who wanted the hit,” I say, untangling what she’s saying. “You paid Anton to take out Janssen.”
“What are you, wearing a wire?” she asks, raising her voice and talking into my chest. “I never killed nobody. I never had nobody killed.” She looks back toward her apartment building, like she’s thinking about bolting.
“Okay,” I say, holding up my hands again. “Okay. That was stupid.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Are we done?”
I nod my head, and then suddenly think of another question. “Where were you on Tuesday night?”
“Home with the dogs,” she says. “I had a headache. Why?”
“My brother got shot.”
She frowns. “Do I look like a killer?”
I don’t point out that she hired a team of hit men to kill her lover. My silence must make her feel like she scored a point, because with a final triumphant glare she takes off, dogs sprinting alongside her.
I walk back to my car, feeling each step. A blister has risen on my big toe. These shoes were never made for chase scenes.
The door of the Benz opens. “Cassel?” Sam calls from the driver’s side. “She tell you anything good?”
“Yeah,” I say. “That she was going to mace me.”
“I was ready to fire up the getaway car.” Sam grins. “Doesn’t she know that muggers don’t wear ties?”
I straighten my collar. “I’m a better class of criminal. A gentleman thief, if you will.”
I let Sam drive. We head back to Wallingford, stopping for drive-through coffee and fries along the way. When we hop back through the dorm window, the smell of take-out clings to our clothes so strongly that it takes half a bottle of air freshener to disguise it.
“Stop smoking in your room,” the hall master says at lights-out. “Don’t think I can’t tell what you’ve been doing in here.”
We laugh so hard that, for a moment, it seems like we’re never going to be able to stop.
* * *
The next morning I am walking to Developing World Ethics when Kevin Ford runs up to me. He stuffs an envelope into my hand.
“What are the odds that Greg Harmsford nailed Lila Zacharov?” he asks, breathless.
“What?” I say.
“Am I the first one to put down money? Dude!”
“Kevin, what are you talking about?” I resist grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, but I don’t think I manage to keep the edge out of my voice. “I can’t calculate odds on something when I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Last night I heard that they went into the sitting room and did it. Greg was bragging about it. His roommate, Kyle, had to totally distract their hall master.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. My mouth feels dry. “I’ll keep the money, but if no one else bets or no one bets against, I’m going to have to give it back.” That’s my standard line for things like this and I say it automatically.
He nods and races off. I stagger into class.
