It takes me a while to find the food court. It’s three levels down in the basement, but Zeth told me to take the long way down, using as many escalators as possible, so I could scope out the lay of the land. Commit to memory where all the exits are. Plot out which way to go if I need to make a fast exit. It’s almost a waste of time, though. If Agent Lowell wants to take me into custody, it won’t be terribly difficult.
It’s five past one when I reach the food court—the place allocated as our meeting point. Rebel was at least smart about the location and time of our meeting. The lunch crowds—hordes of people queuing to grab a bite to eat on their breaks—create a wall of bodies, easy to slip through unnoticed. Lowell is already seated at a table in the middle of the food court, eyes downcast, fixed on the lit-up screen of her cell phone. I hurry through the bustling sea of people and quickly sit down on the other side of the table before I can change my mind and bolt.
Agent Lowell doesn’t look up from her cell phone. Her fingers move swiftly over the touchscreen, typing quickly. “You’re late,” she informs me.
“I know.”
“That tells me you’re unreliable, Dr. Romera. Why would I trust someone who’s unreliable?”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “You don’t trust me. You probably didn’t even know for sure if I was going to show up.”
A cold, unpleasant smile spreads across Lowell’s face. She puts down her cell phone and finally looks up at me. “And supposing you’re right? I don’t trust you, and you don’t trust me. How is this arrangement supposed to proceed?”
I shrug my shoulders, giving her a cold, unpleasant smile of my own. “We rely on the age-old principle of supply and demand, I suppose. You want information I possess. I want something in return. It’s very simple, really.”
Agent Lowell pouts, stroking a hand over her neatly secured hair. I wonder what this scene looks like to the families and friends and work colleagues seated at the tables around us, quickly inhaling their lunch. Do Agent Lowell and I just look like two girlfriends meeting for lunch? Or can people feel the animosity radiating off us, marring the air like a rotten stink?
“I want both of them,” Lowell tells me, her eyes vacant. In fact, she looks a little bored. There are dark circles underneath her eyes, though, and I know her blasé attitude is all pretense. “If I don’t get both of them, Rebel and your sister, then we don’t have a deal.”
The arrangement we made on the phone yesterday was for Rebel, but I prepared myself for the eventuality that she would change her mind, move the goalposts, and demand more than we agreed on. I’m ready for it.
“I only have the Widow Maker. If that’s not good enough, then you can forget the whole thing.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Would you really believe me if I told you where she was, anyway? Would you really believe I’d given up my own sister?”
“Word is you’re not so happy with little Alexis these days,” Lowell says. She picks at a stale-looking salad sandwich sitting on a plate in front of her, absent-mindedly pulling it apart. “Perhaps you’ve had enough of protecting her.”
I just shake my head. Agent Lowell sighs, pushing the plate bearing the stale sandwich away. “All right. So Rebel for a clean slate. Tell me where he is.”
“I need the paperwork first.”
Lowell shoots me a disgusted look. The woman is actually quite attractive, but her general disapproval with life has left a few deep lines on her face, making her appear permanently unhappy. “It takes time to get paperwork like that, Dr. Romera. It’s also the weekend. I can’t just show up at Judge Goldstein’s front door and start making demands. It’s his daughter’s bat mitzvah today. I won’t be able to get the sign-off until Monday.”
I’m prepared for this excuse, too. “We can rearrange to meet when you’re prepared then. I can’t guarantee Rebel will still be where he is right now, though. You know these biker types.” I flash her a completely insincere smile. “They tend to roam around a lot.”
Lowell’s mouth twists into a sour grimace. “Since we’re here finally having a conversation, how about you and I have a little reality check, huh? There are a few things I’m sure you have no clue about that might change your whole attitude toward these proceedings.” She leans down to her side and pulls a manila folder out of her Louis Vuitton purse. In the movies, manila folders are never good news. I doubt this one is going to be any different.
“I don’t care what you want to show me, Denise,” I snap, placing my hand flat against the envelope so she can’t open it. “I’m not interested. All I want is that paperwork, and then our business here is done.”
Lowell yanks the envelope out from underneath my hand and opens it anyway. She lays a photograph down on the table in front of me. “This is Ray Peterson,” she says, tapping a fingernail against the wide-eyed stare of the dead man gazing out of the image at me. The photo is in color, so it’s not hard to miss the pool of blood he’s lying in. I brace myself against the tabletop and peer forward so I can get a good look at the picture. Lowell seems momentarily disappointed. Perhaps she expected me to throw up or something. Tactics like that might work on someone who hasn’t spend the last two years working in the trauma department of an emergency room, but since I’ve witnessed more than my fair share of dismembered body parts and internal organs, that should frankly never see the light of day, all Agent Lowell gets out of me is a raised eyebrow. “Your point?”