“Is it true?” he asked, eyes wide, glossy.
She knew what was coming next, of course. The same comment that always came next. Still, she indulged it like she’d done so many times before. “Is what true?”
“Were you really there when Elias fried in the electric chair? Did you see it? Did you watch?”
“Yes.”
The man was practically salivating now. “And he looked you in the eye before he died?”
Again, she answered, “Yes.”
Even sitting here now, in front of a man she’d never met, his eyes bugging out, she could still picture Elias’s death like it happened only yesterday.
“What was it like to be there? I mean, watching the life get sucked out of him must have been wicked cool.”
Wicked?
Yes.
Cool?
Not so much.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Lester.”
She signed the paperback and handed it to him. “Well, Lester, the answers to all your questions are in the book.”
He clutched the autographed copy in both hands, pressed it to his chest, and stood there, hovering over her like a cat ready to pounce. “It’s just so great to meet you in person, to meet the woman who spent so many years of her life getting close to Elias Pratt, getting to know all the killers you’ve interviewed in your lifetime.”
Over the past several weeks, Alexandra had seen far too many of Lester’s kind—people only interested in meeting her because they assumed she’d had an intimate bond with Elias. Most fans were normal, average, exhibiting a harmless curiosity in Elias’s story. Then there were the others, cultish, those in awe of serial killers. People like Lester. These fans were of a certain breed, like test-tube rats, holding Elias on a pedestal that even death couldn’t decimate.
“You were close to Elias, weren’t you?” Lester pressed.
“I wasn’t close to Mr. Pratt,” she replied. “Getting to know him was purely for the sake of research for the book. Nothing more.”
He squinted one eye, curving his lips into a crooked grin. “I bet that’s what you tell everyone, huh? Does anyone actually believe that garbage?”
Alexandra’s heart pulsed inside her chest, fast and heavy. Dut-dum. Dut-dum. “Excuse me?”
He licked his lips, leaned in even closer, his fevered breath moistening her cheek. “How ’bout I buy you a drink tonight, maybe get to know you better? Talk some more about this book of yours. You like that?”
Alexandra stroked her chin, a rehearsed gesture aimed at the security guard standing twenty feet away: we have a live one. A fanatic. A freak alert. But before the guard shuffled his considerable girth in her direction, the woman standing behind Lester stepped forward, tapping him on the shoulder. “How about you back the hell off Mrs. Weston?”
Lester didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed on Alexandra.
“Now,” the woman said.
“Wasn’t talkin’ to you,” he grunted.
“Your book is signed, and the store is about to close,” the woman continued. “Time for you to leave.”
The man grimaced then arced his body around. “This conversation don’t concern you, ma’am. Mind your business.”
The woman crossed her arms in front of her, bending her head to the side like she was toying with him in the same way he’d just toyed with Alexandra. “Let me put it to you in a way you can understand, m’kay? You have five seconds to back away from Mrs. Weston’s table and leave the store, or I’ll show you just how concerned I can be.”
Alexandra glanced at the store’s security guard once more, an oafish, overweight man named Louis, who, up to now, had exhibited no bite in his bark whatsoever. Panting, Louis reached Alexandra’s desk and raised a brow, blinking at her as if his few brain cells couldn’t determine what he was supposed to do next—step in or hold off.
Lester flattened a hand and thrust it against the woman’s shoulder. “I don’t have to go nowhere.”
Alexandra smacked the security guard’s chest with the back of her hand. “Don’t just stand there, you idiot. Do something!”
A confused Louis reached for Lester, but his hand didn’t connect before the woman’s hand did. With a single swoop she wrenched Lester’s arm behind his body, smacking his face into the wall.
“Move an inch and your arm gets broken,” the woman said.
A young, angel-faced male employee observing the commotion from across the room leapt into the scene. He looked at the woman who’d subdued Lester and squeaked, “Excuse me, what’s going on here? You need to let the man go or I’ll call the cops.”
“Call them. Right now.” The woman tipped a head toward Louis. “And we’re going to need an actual cop, not mall security. Got it?”
The employee’s jaw gaped open. Louis’s jaw gaped open.
“You heard the lady,” Alexandra chimed in. “The man she’s restraining verbally assaulted me and then physically attacked her. Don’t just stand there gawking. Make the damned call!”
The employee muttered an apology in Alexandra’s direction and dashed away. Minutes later, the police arrived, asking a series of questions before placing zip-ties on Lester’s wrists and carting him away. Conflict over, the woman stepped up to the table.
Alexandra accepted the book from the woman’s hands, set it on the table, and smiled at the woman in front of her. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Miss Jax.”
Joss Jax pulled the beanie off her head, her dark locks falling around her shoulders. She combed her fingers through her hair. “Are you sure about that?”
Alexandra laughed. “Of course. We’re fellow authors. Though you did make a play for Elias’s story.”
“I was suggested as an alternative if you refused. I wasn’t interested. They only mentioned it to get you focused. It looks like it worked.”
She was witty and sharp, more personable than Alexandra expected. “I’ve seen your show.”
“How do you like it so far?”
“It’s not bad, but then, I’d watch those investigative shows all day if I could.”
“To be honest, I was surprised they hired me to host.”
“Why?”
“I’m a writer. I know little about television.”
“How did you get the job then?”
“The producers heard I was a fan of the network. They were looking for a public figure with a general knowledge of forensics.”
“You definitely look the part. You’re edgy. Likeable. Captivating with those dark eyes of yours. I’m sure you appeal to their demographic.” Alexandra signed Joss’s book, handed it back to her, grabbed the few remaining books off the table, and shoved them inside a plastic bin on the floor. “I appreciate you coming to my aid tonight.”
“I hope this kind of thing doesn’t happen often.”
Alexandra swished a hand through the air. “Not usually. You?”
“Not much.”
“I had a young stick of a thing follow me back to my hotel room once after a signing. She was harmless. Just an overzealous fan obsessed with the man I was writing about at the time. I don’t get creeps like this Lester fellow often. He’s crazy, but not the I’m here to kill you kind of crazy.”
Joss laughed. “I heard you’re retiring soon.”
“It’s true. I don’t have a passion for writing like I once did.”
Joss raised the book in the air. “Is this your last book then?”
Alexandra’s eyes lingered on Joss for a few seconds. Was she making general conversation or fishing for something else? “What brings you to New Orleans?”
“The show is on hiatus. I thought I’d get away for a while.”
“How long are you here?”
“A few more days.”
Alexandra reached into her handbag, pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. “Thanks again for standing up for me tonight. Here’s my home address. If you have some time tomorrow, why don’t you stop by? My daughter Chelsea w
ould love to meet you. She’s seen every episode of your show.”
Joss didn’t appear to be listening. She was focused on Alexandra’s hands. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Your hands, they’re shaking.”
Alexandra looked down. Joss was right. Her hands were trembling. She placed them on her lap, out of sight. “I’m just a bit jittery. Perhaps it’s all the coffee I’ve had.”
“Or what Lester put you through.”
Either excuse was plausible, except for one thing.
Alexandra’s face felt numb, her body weak, her perfect vision blurred and fuzzy.
She didn’t know what caused it exactly.
She only knew something wasn’t right.
CHAPTER 2
Alexandra needed to pee. She also suffered from an intense, churning pressure in her abdomen, making her feel as though she needed to vomit. With Joss gone, she located a restroom adjacent to the children’s book section of the store and entered the second of three bathroom stalls. In addition to the nausea, the numbness in her face had spread, and her heart was racing.
A minute later, the bathroom door opened and closed.
And then ... silence.
No one entered the stall on either side of her.
No one turned the faucet on.
But a woman was there.
Lurking.
Alexandra could hear her breathing.
Slow. Heavy. Impatient breaths.
Alexandra heard a distinct click, like the door to the bathroom had been bolted. She flushed the toilet, flipped the latch on the metal stall door, and pushed it open, shocked to find the other occupant in the room wasn’t a woman like she’d assumed—it was a man. At least she thought it was a man. He wore baggy clothes, leather gloves, and a plain, dingy, gray beanie on his head. His face was masked with a full beard, and he wore a pair of dark, round, mirrored glasses.
His gloved hands were shaking.
Her bare hands were too.
Thinking of the ordeal she’d just had with Lester, a single thought crossed her mind: not this shit again.
“I believe you have the wrong restroom,” she said. “This is the ladies’.”
He grunted a laugh, took a step forward.
She took two steps back.
He stepped forward again. The two continued the dance until Alexandra’s back was against the wall. There was no place left to go.
“I’m going to have to ask you to back away,” she said. “Right now. Or—”
Her mouth snapped shut when the silver tip of a knife’s blade was pressed to the center of her neck.
Stay calm. Stay strong. No need to panic. He’s a crazed fan. You’ve dealt with them before. You’ll deal with them again. Give him what he wants, and he’ll leave.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Her attacker didn’t move, remained silent.
“Why are you doing this?” she continued. “What do you want? Money? I never carry cash with me at these things. If you think you can—”
“Do you regret it?”
His voice was monotone.
Robotic.
It didn’t sound real.
“Do I regret what?” Alexandra asked. “How could I possibly answer that when I have no idea who you are or what I’m supposed to be regretting.”
“You know exactly what I mean. Apologize for all the lives you’ve ruined. Say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Is this a joke? Is it funny to you?!”
She gnawed on her lower lip, blinked the tears away, composed herself, tried again. “I’m ... I’m ... sorry. Truly, I am. I never meant to offend you. Please, you must believe me. I didn’t mean to offend you ... or anyone.”
“And your regrets? What about your regrets?”
“Of course. I have many regrets. A lifetime of them. Who doesn’t?”
“A lifetime of lies is what you have. Lies and secrets.”
The tip of the blade poked at her throat, piercing the skin. It wasn’t much. No more than a sixteenth of an inch. Just enough for a single line of blood to trail down her neck, staining her shirt.
“Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it,” she pleaded.
The man leaned forward, his steamy breath pulsing a wave of goose bumps along Alexandra’s milky skin. The closeness between them sparked an air of familiarity.
“You think I’m stupid?” he said. “You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for, do you?”
She didn’t. And it wasn’t like she could cater an apology specifically for him. How could she without knowing what she’d done to offend him in the first place?
Unless ...
No.
It couldn’t be.
Hardly anyone knew about the book.
And yet ...
“Put the knife down,” she said. “I’m sure we can work something out. Let’s talk about this. Please. I’ll do anything. I have a family.”
Why did I just mention my family?
“I know.”
“Don’t you touch them! Don’t you dare touch them! You hear me?”
The nausea pulsed through her in a quick, unstoppable wave, followed by a complete loss of control. The man jerked the knife away from her neck, and she slumped to the floor, unscathed. He wasn’t going to stab her.
Everything made sense now.
The nausea.
The shaking.
Her attacker’s fake voice.
She hadn’t been stabbed. She’d been poisoned.
Lying on the filthy bathroom floor, feeling the last few moments of her life ebbing away, she stole one last glance at her attacker.
He wasn’t just vaguely familiar.
She knew him.
CHAPTER 3
The Next Morning
New Orleans was one of those places I knew I’d never fully appreciate until I experienced it firsthand. No amount of personal stories or episodes of Treme could convey the flavor of a city so rich in historic culture as seeing it in person could.
I was staying at an upscale hotel in the French Quarter, which could only be described as interesting. The area, not the hotel. I use the word interesting because, at certain times of the day, Bourbon Street and its adjoining cross streets emitted a distinct odor, a foul smell, like someone had just taken a giant piss in a frying pan and set it on a stove over high heat.
Foul smell aside, the city drew me in, pumping a healthy dose of nostalgia through my veins from the moment the plane touched down, and it was easy to see why the Big Easy was a tourist phenomenon. The jubilant jazz music wafting through the streets was unparalleled to anything I’d experienced before. And I’d seen and heard plenty in my thirty-eight years.
I was kicked back on the bed, scouring through a magazine for freefall skydiving companies, when Finch walked in. Finch was actually his surname. His first name was Gregory, but when I’d read his full name aloud two years earlier during his job interview, he’d corrected me saying, “It’s not Gregory. It’s Greg.” I preferred Gregory, so now he was Finch.
Finch could be described as the Clark Kent of the military. Or retired military, I should say. On the outside, his forty-five-year-old schoolboy charm and simple, understated style made him appear sweet and amiable. Beneath the façade, however, was a trim, toned man who was loyal, perceptive, and didn’t screw around. After twenty years of faithful service in a special ops unit in the military, he’d returned home to find his not-so-loving wife six-months pregnant. Only problem? He hadn’t seen her in nine. Broken and lost, he filed for divorce and walked out of her life forever. Three weeks later, he walked into mine.
Finch plopped down on the bed next to me, pressing a crooked finger to the middle of his eyeglasses, centering them on the bridge of his nose again.
“I have no idea how you see out of those things,” I said.
“What do you mean?” he replied. “I see just fine.”
I
set the magazine I was perusing on my lap and leaned forward, sweeping a few of his stick-straight, blond locks to the side with my finger. “Your bangs almost touch the tip of your nose. It’s like hair gone wild. I know you wanted a change from the military cut, but this is getting a bit extreme, don’t you think? I can’t even see your eyes sometimes when you’re talking to me.”
He frowned, which I suspected had little to do with my comment and more to do with something else.
“What’s bugging you?” I asked.
“What?”
“The look on your face. Something’s wrong.”
“Your mother called.”
“Again?”
He nodded. “Third time this week. If you’d call her back, maybe she’d stop calling me.”
“It’s easier if she calls you. Then I don’t have to talk to her.”
“I’m your bodyguard, not your personal assistant.”
I laughed. “She doesn’t see the difference.”
“Can you just call her?”
“I will.”
“When?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Soon.”
Finch raised a brow. “I don’t believe you.”
Truth was, I didn’t believe me either. I’d avoided her calls for two weeks. I knew what she wanted. The same thing she’d wanted for the past month. My answer was the same as the last time I talked to her. I didn’t see the point in rehashing it. “I’ll call her. I just haven’t made a decision yet.”
“You’re running out of time.”
I sighed. “I know. I know. Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”
“Sure, if you promise to call her.”
“I’ll call her,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
He crossed his arms. “Today, Joss.”
“Fine. Today.”
“And don’t ditch out on me again, okay?”
“You mean last night? I wore a hat.”
“A hat doesn’t protect you.”
“It does if I’m not recognized.”
He sighed. “You need to let me do what I was hired to do. Otherwise, there’s no point in me being on this trip.”
“I asked you if you wanted time off. You didn’t.”
A View to a Kill Page 21
