Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
He also wanted to go back to Ezra Corbin.
It was pure gut, but he felt Lance was out.
There was no reasoning or evidence for a revisit to Ezra, outside the fact he had no alibi.
He just didn’t like the guy.
Now was about going over old ground just to make sure they didn’t miss anything.
He called down to the valet to have his car brought around, secured the files in the safe with his guns, left his dishes where they were, tied the laces on his tan shoes, pulled on a dark-blue blazer, and exited his room.
The first thing he noticed in the lobby was Madden, Lucinda’s daughter, wearing a corduroy skirt, tights, ankle boots, and a chunky turtleneck sweater. She was sitting in a chair, her dark head bent to an iPad, her adorable face screwed up in concentration.
He swung his head left and saw, standing and talking to someone of authority in the hotel, Lucinda, wearing tan, wide-legged trousers, a slim-fit matching tan turtleneck, and an equally matching cardigan that fell to her ankles. On her feet were chocolate suede, stiletto-heeled boots.
Until that moment, Rus had tried not to think about the fact he’d left Bon Amie without any reason to go back, the slim chance she could get her dominatrix friend to speak to him being his only thread to spending time with her again.
And he wasn’t thinking about it because he wanted more time with her and wanting time with Lucinda shouldn’t be what was on his mind.
Regardless, he was both exasperated, amused and pleased she was there now, with her daughter in tow, for whatever her reason could be.
He was about to move her way when someone stepped in front of him.
Close in front of him.
In his space and face.
“Are you the agent from the FBI?”
He stopped dead and looked down his nose at the woman who had waylaid him.
She appeared young, but her long hair parted down the middle and hanging in sheets down the sides of her face was gray. She was wearing a denim shirt, jeans and one of those colorful blanket jackets. Also a lot of silver and turquoise jewelry. Her makeup was subtle, but there.
She was attractive, but not his type. He was about women who were all woman, and although she was all woman, the masculine bent to her dress and her aggressive demeanor were not his thing.
He took a step away.
“I’m sorry?” he asked.
She didn’t repeat her question.
She asserted the answer. “You’re the agent from the FBI. The one investigating that woman’s murder.”
She didn’t give off the air of a reporter.
He still went cautiously.
“Can I help you?”
“Can you confirm you’re investigating the murder?”
“You are?”
She thrust out a square hand, no polish, short nails, lots of heavy rings and bracelets. “Ellen Macklemore.”
He took her hand and made light work of squeezing and releasing. “Are you a reporter, Ms. Macklemore?”
“I’m a concerned citizen.”
Shit.
It was a guess, but he suspected it would be a correct one.
She was in the coven.
“What can I—?” he began.
Her eyes were going up and down him as he said those three words, and she interrupted him.
“Day off?”
Oh, hell no.
FBI wasn’t about being the men in black anymore.
But he didn’t owe her that explanation.
“Ms. Macklemore—”
This time, as he spoke, she twisted her neck to look Lucinda’s way.
He did the same, and saw she was still speaking to the member of staff, but her eyes were on them, and they were narrowed.
Great.
He hadn’t experienced it fully, but another guess he would suspect was correct: Lucinda pissed was not a good thing.
Ellen returned to him.
“Enjoying the local scenery?” Before he could speak, she went on, “A woman is dead and last night, you were on a date.”
He was being watched and talked about.
Small town, that was going to happen.
But fuck this bitch.
He held his shit and informed her in as light a voice as he could muster, “Please know, how I spend my time is not your business.”
“It certainly is when my taxes pay your salary.”
The favorite refrain of the entitled.
And one guaranteed to piss any cop right the fuck off.
Rus was not immune.
“You’re wrong, but just to alleviate your fears, last night, I had dinner with the victim’s employer while discussing aspects of the victim’s life and this case, on which Ms. Bonner was extremely helpful, as she’s been since we started the investigation. I then spent the night interviewing people who worked with and knew the victim, and immersing myself in her place of business, so I would understand more about her, the life she led and who she shared time with. I got back to my room at three in the morning. It’s now nine, I spent the last hour going over what we have on her case, and I’m heading out to meet the sheriff to continue our work in finding who did this. I take my job seriously. I take this case seriously. And I can guarantee you, since I’ve been up to my neck in the life cut short of a vibrant young woman, I know her better than you, and I care a great deal more that the person who ended her life is brought to justice. Now, do you have anything else to say?”