Page 67 of Master of Lies

Her eyes fluttered, and her lips puckered up again. Suddenly, I wondered how I had ever found her attractive at all. She looked drawn, pinched. And scared.

“I’ll just, ah…go and check,” she murmured. She slid her chair back and fled.

Damn. Maybe I’d overdone it. Trying to catch flies with vinegar. Not the first time I’d made that mistake.

Time to get psychologically ready to deal with the police, depending on how much I had spooked her. I hadn’t done anything, except give her an arguably menacing smile. And my fake identity as Jay Warren was well developed. He was a normal, boring, blameless kind of guy. Not the type to get arrested for assault.

Ramona came back, followed by a tall bald guy with a worried frown on his face. I recognized him from his photo on the website as Dr. Milton Clark, one of Grifo’s partners. He put himself protectively in front of Ramona, making her stumble back.

“Sir, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave, right now,” he said, in a pompous, self-important tone.

“Are you Dr. Clark? I need to speak to someone who worked with Joe Grifo.”

“Sir, I’m afraid you have to leave.” I sensed an edge of fear in his voice.

Damn. I wondered if they were afraid of Boer, or of Adriani. These people were definitely afraid of someone. They must think I was a mobster. I tried for a friendly smile. “I was hoping to talk to one of the partners. It would be a mistake not to hear what I have to say.”

“They’re all busy,” Dr. Clark said. “Go, or I’ll be forced to call the police.”

I let out a silent sigh. “No need for that,” I said. “Your loss. You folks have a great evening. Thank you for your help.”

Out in the cold rain, I ran to the car, analyzing the relative idiocy of what I had just done. Yes, they were all on edge, which was good to know, but more of a vibe than hard, actionable data. Now I had put them on their guard.

One more door to bang on, and I’d head back to brave Freya’s thundering wrath. I searched on my laptop for the Moulin Patisserie, and found it a few blocks away. It was a high-end bakery, relatively new, which delivered to restaurants and hotels.

I entered the warm, wood-paneled bakery, damp from the rain. The place had a retro vibe, with a soda fountain at the bar, old time stools, a long glass case that displayed a dizzying array of pastries. The smell of sugar and butter was overwhelming.

This time, I turned the collar of my coat up to hide the tattoo and put on my best “don’t mind me” look. I chose a horse-faced girl with a long, tight blonde braid and heavy glasses, and approached her. Her name tag read “Jessalyn.”

“Hi, Jessalyn,” I said. “I’m Mike, from Madden, Grifo, Clark, and Burns. They sent me to tell you that Ramona decided to switch out the profiteroles for the eclairs, after all. Can you note that down on the order? Or is it too late to change it?”

“I don’t think so,” Jessalyn said. “I’ll just go and check, to be sure. They wanted the early delivery, too, right?”

“Yeah. Wait, hold on. We are talking about the Tuesday event, right? The one at the Cloverdale Arms?”

Jessalyn’s eyebrows arched anxiously upward. “Tuesday? I don’t know anything about a Tuesday event. This order is for the gala tomorrow at the Pineview.”

“Oh, yeah! Of course. Sorry.” I waved my hand apologetically. “I get mixed up. Just too many details to keep track of. You know how it is.”

“Oh gosh, I sure do,” the girl assured me. “Tell me about it!”

I took off, waving at Jessalyn through the window, and hustled through the cold, misty drizzle toward the car. It was full dark now, and my urgency to get back to Freya had crescendoed into a wild drumroll of anxiety.

I sped out of the city toward Houlihan’s, windshield wipers squeaking. I might have gathered some info, but at what cost? I still didn’t know, and that drove me nuts.

Damn it. Freya had flung herself into this clusterfuck uninvited. She had no business bitching if things didn’t go according to her plans.

When I got to the final loop of cabins, I turned the last corner, expecting to see light behind the bedroom curtains…and there wasn’t any. The window was dark.

Fuck.I laid on the accelerator, panic stabbing deep into my gut. There was no possible way anyone could’ve found her here. I shoved in the key and slapped the door open, opening my mouth to—

“Aunt Jean!” A panicked, ear-splitting shriek from the bedroom. “Aunt Jean! Aunt Jean! Aunt Jean!”

CHAPTER25

Freya

“Aunt Jean! Aunt Jean!” I bucked and fought against Uncle Orren’s crushing weight, twisting away from the ugly smell of old, sour-sweet alcohol and his sweat and greasy, unwashed hair. I tried to bite him, kick him. Aunt Jean would probably scream at me, but that was better than being down here with Uncle Orren alone. Anything was better. But I just…couldn’t…breathe. He was squishing me, but I would fight until I died fighting. Then, from far away, I heard a voice, repeating my name.

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