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“Can we do it tomorrow?” she asked, swiping hair from her brow. “It’s been a long couple of days.”
“Okay. But when you get into trouble—”
“I know. Call you. I will.”
“Be safe, babe.”
They hung up and she put the phone back in her purse.
“Who was that?” Mila asked.
“A friend. A very supportive, very patient, friend.”
If she told Lachlan about Mila and her fears, he’d go into overprotective mode. As soon as she let the cops in on their Manzani suspicions, the secret would be out. The targets on their back would grow tenfold.
As it stood, she wasn’t sure the Manzanis themselves were involved. Maybe the killer just picked his victims from Hustle. But why would the women have the tattoos? She needed more information. Jumping to conclusions could drop all of them in hot water that wouldn’t be easy to escape. Even if the Manzanis weren’t involved, they’d want to punish her and Mila for suggesting they might be. No one would get away with drawing police attention to the infamous family. The Manzanis faced enough scrutiny on that front without anyone adding to it.
They had to be careful. They had to be smart. They had to be sure.
FIFTEEN
A MODEST OFFICE SUITE, Yvonne’s workplace was on the first floor of a taller building. Some training day on the opposite side of the city had stolen most of Yvonne’s colleagues. Great, no answers. Frustrating. They resolved to go back the following day.
The delay worked in their favor. By her reckoning anyway. Pushing Mila too far could be disastrous. For this story, risks were necessary. That was her prerogative. Her decision. Somehow, tying someone else up in her choices didn’t sit easy. Mila might say she was okay, but the trauma of losing her friend couldn’t be underestimated. In grief, her judgments weren’t necessarily rational.
That was why she left her new friend sleeping in the hotel to sneak out alone that night. Some choices were impossible to explain. Why was it acceptable for her to take the risk while barring Mila from the same route? Her conscience wouldn’t tolerate risking someone else. Mila had lost too much already. If she got into trouble, a call to Ford would bring him to her rescue. In a real pinch, she could call her dad, but that would be a last, final, doomsday sort of event.
The map napkin in the diner hadn’t been exact and disappeared with Jagg’s coffee. Still, the internet was a wonderful thing. Turned out there was an actual website that could triangulate a central location when given three points on a map.
Just in case of trouble, she stopped at home to change out of her slut-wear and went with skinny jeans instead. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, hence the lack of purse and choice of hooded sweatshirt. Yes, she’d have to explain the change of attire to Mila, but that was a problem for tomorrow.
Like her last trip to Hustle, she asked the cab driver to drop her off a block early and walked in. Getting a lay of the land was easier with a wider approach. Information and her life, those were the two things she wanted to leave with.
The street wasn’t busy. People milled around sporadically. The people you’d expect to see in that kind of area. Groups of guys hung around in doorways. The younger ones called at each other from an alley.
No one ever scared her.
No, that wasn’t true. She never showed anyone fear. Bravado could come off as arrogance, that was where the innocent thing came in. If she got a little too haughty, she could switch and draft. Her father and brother may not have wanted her to be part of their world, but it had infected her young.
They’d consider that a bad thing. She didn’t. With her father in the city, her mom in the suburbs, and her stepfather’s high six-figure salary, she was as comfortable in the company of paupers as kings.
Most people weren’t bad through and through. Those who meant harm were usually easy to spot. Anyway, if someone got too close, she’d pick her brother’s name or her father’s depending on the age of the perpetrator. One of their reps would mean something to an assailant.
Yet on approach to the group of women smoking outside the hotel entrance, it wasn’t her relatives’ names in her head.
“Hey,” she said, tucking her hood back from her forehead a little.
“We’re on break.”
“It’s information I need, not service,” she said. “Is there someone inside I can talk to?”
“You can talk to whoever you want, honey,” a blonde with crimson lips said. “If it’s got a dick, pull that zip down and they might even talk back.”
She smiled at the laughing women and carried on through the darkened doorway. Broken lights above and on both sides suggested it was once a well-illuminated space. The painted walls and gouged floors spoke to the lack of upkeep. The current occupants didn’t care about the décor and their customers were more interested in the look of other things. Like the product.
The point was to get inside. To get an idea of what went on in that building. Talking to the women outside was a respect thing. She wouldn’t walk past people like she was better than them. Offending the home team on their own turf never ended well.
Lights around reception showed exactly where customers were supposed to approach. A woman behind the desk didn’t even look up. Key hooks above the mail slots were occupied or not, depending on who was busy, she guessed. Rather than mail, each of the slots held a picture… a boutique shot… clothes, it appeared, were optional.
