"I know. But I need to talk to Caine. Meeting with him is the only way we're going to get to the bottom of this and find out who set us up-and why."
"When do you want to do it?" Finn asked.
"Tomorrow," I said. "We make first contact tomorrow."
Chapter Twelve
"Let me go in with you," Finn said.
We sat in a black Cadillac Escalade down the street from the grimy storefront that housed the Cake Walk. Last night, Finn had borrowed the luxury SUV from one of the downtown parking garages. He might be a glorified banker, but Finn was also rather handy at changing ownership of certain items, like cars.
Normally, we would have driven his Benz or one of Finn's other half-dozen cars. But since the Air elemental knew exactly who Finn was and had someone in the police department working for her, we'd decided to steal whatever transportation we might need over the next few days instead of using his vehicles. Just in case someone in the department had put out an APB on Finn's wheels. Besides, swiping someone's car was pretty low on the list as far as crimes went in Ashland. Even if someone reported her car stolen, it would be a couple of days before the paperwork went through to report it. This thing would be long over with by then.
Once we'd gotten the vehicle, we'd worked late into the night on how I was going to approach Donovan Caine. What to say, reveal, promise, threaten. Finally, around three in the morning, we'd crashed in my apartment to rest up for my big lunch date.
"You're going to need some backup," Finn added. "Just in case Caine decides he wants to take you in, no matter how much collateral damage there might be."
"Guys like Caine try to avoid collateral damage. That doesn't mean things couldn't go wrong, but it's better if you stay out here. I don't need to worry about you while I'm talking with the detective." I grinned. "Besides, somebody has to drive the getaway car."
Finn snorted. "This isn't Driving Miss Daisy. And you certainly don't look like Jessica Tandy."
Blending in with your surroundings was another essential skill assassins had to master. Sometimes I used flashy clothes to do it. Wigs, makeup, glasses, jewelry.
Sometimes I used my body. Affecting an accent, walking a certain way, being loud and loquacious.
But what I excelled at most was being invisible. In looking and acting so completely normal and so ordinary that I grayed out, just like wallpaper. Slow movements, quiet voice, neutral expression. You saw me, but you didn't really register the fact I was there. A skill I'd perfected while living on the streets as a kid. None of the dirty, disenfranchised, and downtrodden ever wanted to draw attention to themselves, except for the vampire hookers.
The last approach was the one I'd decided to use today. Just being myself. Jeans, boots, T-shirt, fleece jacket. Casual comfort. My only concession to today's meeting was my white T-shirt, which featured a mound of blackberries. The shirt dipped into a deep V in the front that cut through the blackberries and showed off my cleavage and the edge of my white lace bra. Every man liked to look at breasts, no matter who they were attached to. If it gave me a momentary advantage or the detective a cheap thrill, all the better. I wasn't above using what I had.
But I wasn't going in without my silverstone knives. One up either sleeve, two tucked in my boots, and another hidden against the small of my back. My usual five-point arsenal. And Jo-Jo was right. I had my Ice and Stone magic to tap into, if things got really desperate.
But that wouldn't happen. Because I was smarter than that. Stronger. And Donovan Caine wasn't the lecherous, rapist bastard his dead partner had been.
I stared out the tinted windows at the Cake Walk. An enormous chocolate cake topped with chipped whipped cream and a faded cherry covered most of the front window. People relaxed at small tables inside. It was almost one o'clock, and a steady stream of folks entered and exited the restaurant, as though eating lunch on an assembly line.
Finn and I had been sitting in the same spot for the last hour. Finn kept his eye on the flirty coeds who sashayed in and out of the diner, while I watched for Donovan Caine.
"Where do you think Caine is? It's almost one. He should have been here by now." Finn shrugged. "My source said he was usually in the restaurant by twelve thirty. Most of his credit card receipts have him leaving around one fifteen, one thirty. Maybe he caught a case."
I'd just turned back to the window when I spotted Caine rounding the corner. He strolled down the street, once again moving with that loose, easy confidence I found so attractive. He wore a wrinkled blue suit and a white shirt that made his skin gleam like polished bronze. A silver striped tie hung loose around his neck. Caine's black hair was rumpled, as though he'd been running his fingers through it in frustration, and his face was set into a scowl. I could see the hard glint of his hazel eyes even from this distance. The detective reminded me of a Hispanic Dirty Harry, ready to plug anybody who got in his way. Somebody hadn't had a good morning. I wondered if it was because he'd been told to back off the Gordon Giles murder.
Caine yanked open the door to the Cake Walk and stepped inside. I stayed where I was, watching the flow of people and cars. About thirty seconds after Caine entered the restaurant, two guys wearing dark suits appeared at the end of the block.
They had the corporate look down pat and blended in well with the crush of businessmen, except for a couple things. First of all, they weren't in a hurry to get back to the office like everyone else was. Second, their faces were harder, colder than those of the corporate raiders around them. Third and most telling, they held their arms slightly out to their sides in a manner that suggested each one had a gun stuffed inside his suit jacket. Maybe two.
One of them bought a newspaper from a vendor on the corner, while the other lit a cigarette. "The good detective's got a tail," Finn said.
"I expected as much," I murmured. "The question is does he know about it or not?
Are they part of the Air elemental's team? Are they cops?"
"Definitely not cops," Finn said. "Even the dirtiest detectives know better than to sport five-thousand-dollar suits. Those guys are wearing the latest designs from Fiona Fine's fall menswear collection."
I shook my head. "You and your clothes. Worse than a woman. The next thing I know, you'll be talking about wingtips."
"Nah," Finn said. "It's all about the suit. Nobody ever looks at a man's shoes." I stared at the two men. One man seemed content to read his newspaper while Caine ate lunch. The smoker was more adventurous. He wandered over to three women leaning against the building, sipping iced mochas and eyeing all the businessmen who walked by. Coeds, from the looks of their tight shirts, glittering belly button rings, and backpacks. On the prowl for their Mrs. degrees. The man struck up a conversation with the girls, then pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it to one of them. Hmm. That could be useful.
"Keep an eye on those girls. Make sure they don't wander away while I'm inside."
"Gladly," Finn replied.
I waited a few more minutes, but Caine's watchers made no move toward the restaurant, except to glance up whenever anyone stepped inside. I didn't like the fact someone was watching Caine, but this was the best chance I had to get close to the detective. To find out why he'd been so interested in Gordon Giles and what Giles had really been up to. I had to risk it. And if I had to lullaby the two men following the detective, well, I'd be more pissed about getting blood on my T-shirt than dropping their bodies on the pavement.
"All right," I said. "I'm going in. If I'm not back in twenty minutes-"
"I'm supposed to leave you behind," Finn finished. "I know the drill, Gin. I was doing this for my dad long before you were around."
The mention of Fletcher cast a dark shadow in the car. Finn's face tightened, and he turned away. Even through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, I could tell he was blinking back tears. The same sort of sadness filled me, although I'd cried all my tears the other night in the shower.
But the thought of my murdered mentor motivated me to get on with this. Finding out who set us up and why was the only way I could keep Finn safe-and make sure Fletcher hadn't died for nothing.
I reached over and squeezed Finn's hand. He didn't look at me, but his fingers tightened on mine. "Wish me luck," I whispered and got out of the car.
I walked at an angle toward the front of the restaurant, as though I were coming in from the grassy quad of the community college several hundred feet away. I put my right hand next to my hip and palmed one of my knives so that the tip barely protruded out of the sleeve of my jacket. My thumb caressed the hilt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the guy with the newspaper peering over the top of it at me. But he didn't recognize me from my poor police sketch because he didn't move in my direction, gesture to his buddy, or whip out a cell phone and call for backup. Still, I added a flirty shimmy to my long stride to give him something else to focus on besides my face.
I waited for a couple of guys carrying briefcases to move away from the front door and stepped inside the Cake Walk. The restaurant was dark and cool after the heat of the midday sun, and I slowed, letting my eyes adjust to the dimmer light. My fingers brushed against the wall by the door, and I listened to the stone's vibrations. Loud, cheery, and brassy, just like the bellows of the restaurant's workers as they shouted orders to each other. The only thing to be concerned about in here was how many calories the triple chocolate cake had-and how fast they'd go straight to your ass.
A counter, not unlike the one at the Pork Pit, ran along the back wall. Behind the glass partition, workers made chicken salad sandwiches on sourdough bread, ladled up bowls of potato soup, and cut slices of bright blackberry pies and moist, golden Mountain Dew cakes. The smell of sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg flavored the air, and I could almost feel the grease on the walls. The red booths, metal tables, and iron chairs were clean, but faded and shiny from wear.
Donovan Caine sat by himself at a booth in the corner, overlooking the street. He'd taken off his jacket and rolled up his white shirtsleeves. A sprinkling of black hair covered his corded, brown forearms. Caine munched on a ham sandwich. A bag of chips, a side of coleslaw, and two pieces of blackberry pie decorated his tabletop, along with a glass of iced tea. A man with a hearty appetite.
I went down the assembly line, opting for a piece of the Mountain Dew cake and a lemonade I wasn't going to get a chance to eat or drink. I kept one eye on Caine, but the detective focused on his food. He didn't look up, not even once. The two watchers outside made no move to come into the Cake Walk, so I decided to go ahead with my plan.
I paid for my dessert, walked over, and plopped my tray on the table. "That seat's taken," Caine growled, without even looking up.
"Don't worry, sugar, I won't stay long." I slid in across from him.
He recognized my soft voice. I could tell by the way his broad shoulders stiffened underneath the fabric of his white shirt. The way his whole body tensed. The way he gathered his strength down into the pit of his stomach, getting ready to strike.
Donovan Caine put his half-eaten sandwich down onto his plastic plate with slow, careful, calm movements. He laid his hands flat on the tabletop, then raised his hard gaze to mine.
I smiled. "Care if I join you?"
Donovan Caine didn't panic. Didn't sputter, scream, pull his gun, or do anything stupid that would get him dead. Instead, his hazel eyes narrowed, and he regarded me with a cool expression.
"You're either the most daring assassin I've ever met or the stupidest." His voice, a low, rich baritone, rumbled out of the deepest part of his chest.
My smile widened "You have to be both in my line of work."
My quip was met with another flat stare. Donovan Caine needed to work on his sense of humor. "Why are you here?" he asked. "To finish what you started the other night?"
"No," I said. "I'm not here to kill you, detective. I just want to talk." Another hard look. Then his eyes dropped to the gun holstered on his belt. A brief flicker, a quick glance down and nothing more, but I saw it.
"If I were you, detective, I wouldn't do anything stupid, like attempt to pull your gun." His body tensed, a coiled spring wound that much tighter. "Why not?" I jerked my head toward the window. "See that black Caddy out there? The SUV?" He nodded.
"One of my associates is in that vehicle. He happens to have several guns with him. If I don't leave the restaurant in fifteen minutes, he's going to start shooting the coeds over in the college quad. If I am impeded or followed, he's going to start shooting coeds. If he gets bored or his nose itches, he's going to start shooting coeds. Your choice, detective."
I didn't mention the fact I also had a knife palmed in my hand and that I could sever his femoral artery under the table quicker than he could draw his weapon. I hoped it wouldn't come to that, though. I needed the detective, and right now he needed me as well, if he wasn't too stubborn to see it.
Caine didn't respond. Instead, he kept staring at me, as if he could discern the secrets to my character just by peering into my eyes. After a few moments, his gaze moved away from mine. Caine studied my face, hair, clothes, committing them to memory for later use. He'd probably have a new, better sketch of me circulating to the media in time for the six o'clock news. But the good detective wasn't above checking out my breasts. A brief flicker, a quick glance down and nothing more, but I saw it.
"Fine," he muttered. "Talk."
I took a sip of my lemonade. Not nearly tart enough. "I have a proposition for you." Caine snorted. "Really? What would that be? Letting me choose my own death?"