The Hitwoman Plays Games (Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman Book 24)

by JB Lynn

  “It's a good one,” Armani said, clasping her good hand around her injured one.

  “Well,” I asked with a tight smile, knowing that whatever came out of her mouth was probably not going to be accurate, “do you want to tell me what it is?”

  “Shitful.”

  I chuckled. I couldn't help it. It was just so ridiculous.

  “Shitful,” God repeated. “Makes sense to me.”

  I wondered if this meant I was going to end up in some life and death battle in a bathroom of all places. That would be pretty apropos for my life. Or maybe a septic tank. Or a sewage field.

  “Have you heard from her?” Armani held out the bag, indicating I should dump the letters back in.

  “RV?”

  She nodded.

  “No,” I said sympathetically. I knew that it really bothered her that RV had left without saying goodbye.

  “Do you think it was Jack's fault?” Armani asked.

  I shook my head. I know RV really couldn't have been happy with Jack’s accusation that she might be a murderer, but I didn't think that's what had chased her away. I didn't think anything had chased her away. She seemed to be searching for something. Something other than the bicycle charm she had discovered in the dirt.

  “I don't think he was her biggest problem,” I told my friend.

  She sighed heavily and clutched the bag to her chest. “I've tried asking, but I haven't gotten a response.”

  “Asking Jack?” I asked, confused.

  “Asking the spirits,” she replied. “They’re mum on her.”

  “Oh.” I didn't know what else to say to that kind of statement.

  “He's kind of boring,” Armani said.

  “The spirit?” I was having difficulty following this conversation.

  “Jack.”

  I knew not to comment on that. I've never understood the attraction between my free-spirited, unconventional friend and the truth-seeking reporter. Then again, I’m not in a position to comment on anyone's love life. Plus, Jack hadn’t put her in mortal danger yet, like her last few boyfriends, so I wasn’t inclined to say anything negative about him, especially considering that their shared physical attraction was practically palpable.

  For a moment, my thoughts settled on Gino. On that moment of tension that had enveloped us when he patted my knee earlier. My cheeks warmed thinking of it. I shook my head. I had more important things to focus on.

  “Have you seen much of Angel lately?” Armani asked, changing the subject off of her love life to mine.

  “Not much,” I answered honestly. There had been a time when it felt like things were ramping up between myself and Delveccios’ nephew, but not now. The whole fiasco with his old Navy buddies had strained our relationship.

  Armani clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Why not? He's a hottie and he likes Katie. You could do a lot worse.”

  “You sound like I’m an old spinster aunt you’re trying to marry off,” I snapped. What I didn't tell her was that Angel was pretty much a straight arrow, while I lived to bend the rules. Plus, things were complicated considering I worked for his uncles. I had the distinct impression I was better off not being romantically involved with him.

  “I’m working on your spinster aunts,” she revealed.

  I looked at her suspiciously. Had she attempted to get Templeton to marry Loretta? Was that why he’d made that dangerous-sounding phone call? Was he feeling trapped? Looking for a way out?

  “You know what you should do,” she began, a glint in her eye. “You—”

  We were interrupted by Aunt Susan walking out onto the porch. “Margaret.”

  Sometimes, when she said my name a certain way, I feel like I am a five-year-old about to be lectured. This was one of those times.

  Apparently, Armani picked up on that, too, because she clasped her bag of letters to her chest. “Later, chica.” She hurried back inside the house without a backward glance.

  I tried not to think of her as a traitor for abandoning me in my time of need.

  “You have to talk to Loretta,” Susan said.

  I relaxed a little, realizing she wasn't upset with me, but with her sister. I know that's a selfish reaction, but I already had enough things going wrong, I didn't need her angry at me also.

  “I can try,” I said, “but she seems pretty intent on keeping her dancers.”

  “She's literally causing people to have car accidents,” Susan said, her voice rising so that by the end of the sentence she was yelling.

  God, not wanting to face her wrath, dove back into my bra.

  “I understand,” I said, trying to calm her.

  “Stop her.” Susan's eyes were wide, her tone desperate.

  “I'll see what I can do,” I promised, not understanding why her reaction was so intense. “Is something else bothering you?” I found myself asking.

  Now, I knew full well that something else that was bothering her. I had chosen to work with her husband, so I really shouldn't have asked the question, but for some reason I felt compelled to open that can of worms.

  “I need more,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest and hugging herself tightly. With that, she stepped back inside, letting the door slam behind her.

  “What was that about? What does she need more of?” I asked God.

  “Women are the great mystery of the world,” he squeaked.

  6

  I'm pretty sure that hell on earth is a game center.

  Flashing lights, electronic beeps, screaming kids running around on a sugar high, and harried or disinterested parents are not a recipe for peace.

  I did my best to keep my shoulders down and the corners of my mouth up as I walked into the building. I was trying to look like somebody who wanted to work there, not somebody who was vehemently opposed to even walking in the door.

  I hadn't gotten more than five feet in the building when a little body crashed into me. The kid bounced off me like I was a rubber wall. The ice cream cone she'd been carrying ended up smashed against my thigh. The girl, under four, watched the ice cream sliding down my leg. She stuck out her tongue, and I had the deep distinct impression she was going to try to lick it off.

  “Hey there,” I said, crouching down so that I was at eye level with her. “Are you okay?”

  Wide-eyed she nodded, reminding me of Katie at the same age.

  A voice reprimanded from behind me, “What did you do to this nice lady?”

  The little girl flinched.

  I turned to face the man who was speaking. “It’s nothing.”

  He surveyed the stain. The vanilla was tracing a pattern against the dark blue denim of my jeans. “Apologize to the lady,” the man ordered his daughter.

  “Sorry,” the kid muttered before dashing off.

  “I really am sorry about that,” the man said, running an exasperated hand through his hair. “This place brings out the worst in her.”

  I offered him a genuine smile. “Kids and sugar. A deadly combination.”

  “You have a kid here?” he asked curiously.

  I shook my head. “Mine’s at home.”

  He glanced down at this quickly spreading stain on my jeans again. “Let me pay for having those cleaned,” he offered.

  “They’re jeans,” I told him. “I'll just throw them in the wash.”

  He flashed a toothy grin at me. “But if you do that, I’ll never get your phone number.”

  Noting that the smile didn’t reach his eyes, I wondered if that line worked on the mothers that came to this place. I shook my head. “Thanks anyway, but I’m good.” I walked away in search of a manager. I had a job to apply for.

  The store employees all wore bright orange shirts that made them look like prisoners out on a work detail. I made a beeline for the first that I saw. “Excuse me?”

  The teenager, who was sweeping candy wrappers into a dustpan, didn't look up from his work.

  I didn't know if that was because he was a teenager or if he couldn't
hear me over the din in the place. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Excuse me?” I yelled.

  The kid looked up, startled. “Yeah?”

  “I’m looking for the manager,” I told him.

  He held the broom that he was holding in front of him like it was some sort of protective shield. “Is there a problem?”

  I shook my head. “I have an interview. I applied for a job.”

  He tilted his head to the side and looked at the ice cream that was running down my leg, probably thinking I’d done an excellent job of dressing for the job I wanted.

  When he still didn’t say anything, I prodded, “The manager,” thinking perhaps he was having some sort of seizure because of the flashing lights and had completely forgotten what I had just asked him.

  “Follow me.” He weaved his way through the screaming throngs of children, the gossiping mothers, and the fathers who looked like they just wanted to indulge in the activities that their kids were getting to play.

  I followed closely behind, trying to relax my shoulders. I wanted my interviewer to believe that this was an environment that I was totally comfortable in.

  The truth was, I hated this place. I knew I'd have a headache when I left. Legit jobs are not all that they’re cracked up to be. It’s easier to kill people than to interact with the public.

  We walked past the restrooms and through a door marked Employees Only. There was a short hallway. The first room we passed was obviously the break room. It had a refrigerator, a microwave, and exhausted-looking employees in their bright orange shirts, draped over chairs, like discarded clothing.

  The next room had a wall of screens displaying, via camera, every inch of the place. A guy in a t-shirt that barely covered his potbelly leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head surveying the chaos.

  The last room had a closed door. The kid knocked on it three times. There was no response.

  “Let me go find him,” he said with a sigh. “Wait here.” He put his broom down and shuffled off back in the direction we’d come from.

  Part of me was inclined to stay by the door. After all, the noise was muted from the game room. It was like when you go to a dance club and go to the restroom. You could still hear the thudding of the bass, but it sounds like it's far away, not pounding directly into your skull.

  But I was there for a job.

  As soon as the kid disappeared from sight, I wandered over to the camera room, trying to look nonchalant. I stood in the doorway, studying the screens over the pot-bellied guy’s shoulder. I needed to see if there were any blind spots. Any places where one could grab a kid undetected.

  Of course, this was the kind of place where they worried about people grabbing kids. I didn't see any areas I could take advantage of. The job wasn't going to be easy.

  The guy glanced over his shoulder at me. “Help you?”

  “I'm applying for a job,” I told him, feigning nervousness. “Is there anything I should know about the manager that might help me out?”

  He scratched his belly and shrugged. “You on time for your interview?” he asked.

  I glanced at my watch. “Five minutes early.”

  He returned his attention to the screens. “You're practically hired already.”

  I took that to mean that the manager valued punctuality. I wondered if Griswald had known that. He had stressed that it was important that I arrive early, to get the lay of the land, but perhaps he had another reason. He'd been the one to fill out my job application. He'd said that I'd worked at a nursery school and had put in a phone number for whoever was checking my work background to call. I didn't know if that meant the call went to him, or if he had some other option at his disposal, courtesy of our mystery employer.

  Since the “security” guard didn’t seem to have a problem with me standing there, staring at the screens, I took advantage of the moment. I didn't know what I could report back to Griswald, but I wanted to make it clear that I'd taken the job seriously and had gathered as much intel as possible.

  When I heard the volume increase from the game center, I figured the door had opened at the other end of the hallway. I quickly strode back to the office where the kid had left me waiting. As the manager came around the corner, I pretended to be pacing nervously.

  I almost tripped over my own two feet as I looked up to greet him. My stomach dropped. He was scowling, eyebrows drawn together, mouth pressed into a hard line.

  Without speaking, he unlocked his office door and ushered me inside.

  Feeling genuinely nervous, I stepped into the small room, taking in the desk covered with papers and the giant stuffed gorilla sitting in the chair behind it.

  When he closed the door behind us, the manager took a step closer to loom over me.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” There was no mistaking the anger in his voice.

  I took half a step back and shrugged apologetically. “Looking for a job?” My voice cracked with anxiety.

  He folded his arms over his chest and glared at me. “Really?” he mocked. “Is that the best you can come up with, Mags?”

  7

  The flush of anger made his cheeks almost as red as his hair. My murder mentor and former lover, Patrick Mulligan, was not happy to see me.

  I gulped nervously.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Mags?”

  I shrugged. “I really am looking for a job.”

  “Here?” he asked. “Did you-know-who send you?”

  I shook my head. He was thinking that our sometimes-mutual employer, Delveccio, the mob boss, had sent me.

  “Good,” he said. “Then leave.”

  I stood up a little straighter and jutted out my chin, not liking his tone. “You can't tell me what to do.”

  “You're interfering with an official investigation,” he told me sternly. “I can damn well tell you to get out of here.”

  I frowned, wondering what the investigation was about. Pedophilia? Child porn? I shuddered at the thought.

  “How am I supposed to explain that to Griswald?” I asked, giving him just as much attitude as he was giving me.

  He dropped his arms to his sides. “Griswald?”

  “Yes,” I told him. “He's the one who sent me here.”

  “You're working for the U.S. Marshal Service?” Patrick blinked as he asked the question. He looked so confused that I almost chuckled.

  “No. Griswald's gone into the… private investigation business.”

  “And you’re here, working with him?”

  I nodded. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right?”

  “Griswald is not your enemy,” Patrick told me in a tone that brooked no argument. “He’s a good guy.”

  I just barely kept from rolling my eyes. “I know.”

  We stood there for a long moment, staring at each other. Looking into his green gaze, I could see the possible permutations of the situation being computed.

  “What does he want you to do here?” he asked finally.

  I looked away. I didn't think it was a good idea to tell the nice police detective that I was there to kidnap a child. Who knew if the cops had the place bugged?

  With a shake of my head, I said, “You gonna give me a job?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. Then you explain to Griswald what's going on here.”

  “It's none of his business what's going on here,” Patrick said. “It's none of your business, either, for that matter.”

  “Look,” I bargained, “I won't get in your way. I won't interfere with your investigation. Just let me do what I'm here to do.”

  “Which you won't tell me,” Patrick reminded me.

  I shrugged. “I'm not sure I can. I have to talk to Griswald.”

  “By all means,” Patrick said. “Get your boss’s OK.”

  Before I could reply, there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Patrick ordered. The door swung open and a teenage girl, with piercings that would
make a warrior from an ancient tribe wince, stuck her head in. “P Man says there's trouble in zone 4.”

  Patrick nodded his understanding. The girl pulled the door back closed.

  “I've gotta take care of this, but this discussion is not over, Mags.”

  He opened the door, waved me out, pulled it closed behind him, and marched down the hall, leaving me to follow.

  His long legs strode with a sense of purpose, and he cut through the crowd effortlessly while I hurried to keep his bobbing red head in sight. When I finally caught up to him, we were in the concessions area.

  There was a crying little girl clutching a headless teddy bear that was bleeding stuffing.

  “Violence against a stuffed animal,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Is there a problem here?” Patrick asked as he approached the child.

  She just sobbed harder.

  Her mother was not as reticent. She pointed to a man standing nearby, holding the teddy bear’s head. “He isn't supposed to be here!”

  Patrick surveyed the carnage and asked, “What happened to the bear?”

  “I was trying to give it to my daughter,” the man said quietly, “but then she grabbed it.” He nodded in the direction of the woman.

  “He's not supposed to be here,” the woman repeated.

  “Do you have a restraining order against him, ma’am?” Patrick asked.

  “This is my time with her,” the woman sobbed dramatically.

  “I’m five minutes early for my pickup time,” the man explained. He scowled at the woman accusingly. “You've had her all week.”

  “And if I have my way, I'll have her forever,” the woman threatened. The veins in her forehead were pronounced, her mouth drawn back in a nasty snarl.

  The little girl cried harder.

  I wanted to scoop her up and protect her from being the pawn her parents battled over. I wondered how much worse it was for the child involved in Griswald’s case and what effect my involvement would have on the kid’s long-term happiness.

  “I'd suggest you go have your custody dispute somewhere else,” Patrick said calmly. “This isn't the place for it.” He glanced at the little girl. “And having it in front of her isn’t the way to handle this. Act like adults.”