“Borealis,” came a tinny voice from the car’s speakers as it came to a stop in front of an impressive-looking structure with a smoked-glass façade and what looked like embers of light moving within its walls.
She didn’t have time to stop and puzzle out how they managed that particular effect. Instead, she waved her credit voucher over the reader embedded in the wall of the cab, then got out. This was where it would have been helpful to have Derek along, since she could feel herself teeter on her heels for a split second before regaining her balance. If he’d been there to put a steadying hand on her elbow, she would have fared a bit better.
But of course he couldn’t come anywhere near a place where Conrad Waite might be loitering, so she gathered up her dignity and entered the bar. Luckily, it had been dim and dusky outside, and so her eyes didn’t take long to adjust to the equally dim lighting inside Borealis, which was actually both a restaurant and bar. When the mech maitre d’ approached her and asked if she would like a table, she demurred, saying she was just going to the bar. The machine inclined its shining head and indicated the way for her, and she thanked it, wondering at the extravagance of an establishment that could afford mech personnel rather than their much cheaper human counterparts.
She pushed that thought aside as she entered the bar and did a quick survey of its occupants. The place was fairly full, but she saw an empty table for two on the far side of the space, up against one of those enormous sheets of glass…or whatever it was…with the glowing lights embedded within. It was impossible to see the faces of everyone in the bar from where she stood, but that table offered a good vantage point. If it turned out Waite wasn’t here, she’d have one drink and leave. Maybe that wasn’t the best plan in the world, since if she had more than a couple of drinks on an empty stomach, she wouldn’t be as effective as she liked. On the other hand, she’d be sure to draw attention to herself if she walked into a place like this and didn’t order something. Well, she’d just have to hope they didn’t mix things too strong. It was her experience that the more expensive establishments tended to be the ones to skimp on the alcohol.
She crossed to the table, aware of the eyes of the men who were there alone tracking her progress. That was another calculated risk, that someone who wasn’t her quarry would come over and attempt to engage her. Luckily, she had some experience freezing out unwanted attention, so she figured she could handle the situation if it arose.
In here they had a human bartender and human servers, so it looked as if the Borealis’ pockets weren’t infinitely deep. Anyway, experiments with mech bartenders had ended in disaster — they lacked the instinctual talent of a good mixologist, and couldn’t taste their concoctions while they were being programmed, so that was an experiment that hadn’t gone anywhere, especially since even the best A.I.s weren’t exactly good conversationalists.
The waiter approached and asked what she would like. She told him a Starblazer, partly because it wasn’t very strong, and partly because it was something she’d drunk before on numerous occasions. The drink was popular in Luna City because the vodka and other components were easy to synthesize, and she wondered after she’d placed her order whether she should have chosen something else.
Can’t be helped now, she thought, allowing herself to scan the bar’s occupants now that she had a more or less unimpeded view. A number of couples, a few women who seemed to be there alone, slightly more men who were similarly unattached. It was hard to look at them without appearing to look at them, especially since she didn’t want to make any unintended eye contact.
But then….
Her entire body seemed to freeze, and she forced herself to let her gaze drift casually past. Dark hair cut a shade closer than was considered fashionable. Plain dark suit. Hard jaw and steely eyes that seemed out of place in the upscale bar.
He’d noticed her, she could tell. Something about those cold eyes seemed to sharpen, and she could almost feel his stare fasten on her.
Showtime, she thought, took a breath, and then shifted on her chair so the skirt of her dress hiked up ever so slightly, showing more thigh. As she did so, she allowed her gaze to track back toward him, and when their eyes finally met, she smiled. Just a little. But it was enough.
He got up from his seat at the bar, taking his drink with him, and came toward her, moving through the people in the bar like a shark cutting through a school of fish. Her heart began to beat more quickly, but she ignored it. Her heart could do as it liked, as long as it didn’t give her away.
When he was a foot or so away from her table, he stopped, then asked, “Is that seat taken?”
Oh, very smooth. But she only smiled a bit more and replied, “It is now.”
Accepting her invitation, he sat down, seeming to dwarf the fragile construct of extruded carbon-fiber and faux black leather, then put his drink on the table. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
What was that, the second-oldest line in the book? She shrugged, aware of the way her hair fell over the soft, silky fabric of her dress, slipped dangerously close to her cleavage. The dress did have sleeves, down to the elbow, but was low-cut enough that she could see the way his eyes flicked toward the shadow between her breasts, then back up to her face. Not overtly, no, he wasn’t that crass. On the other hand, he hadn’t made much of an attempt to hide his interest.
“No,” she replied, answering his question. “I’m from Fort Dallas.”
“Texas girl, huh?” He lifted his glass and drank some of the amber liquid it contained. “You don’t sound like it.”
Of course not, because I have only the barest idea where Texas even is. “My parents made sure of that.”
“Wise, I suppose.” Appearing to notice that she didn’t have a drink of her own, he said, “Can I get you something?”
“Oh, I’ve already ordered. Here it is.”
And yes, there was the waiter, bringing her the Starblazer she’d ordered. Good thing it didn’t look much different from any other number of drinks made with clear liquor and equally clear mixers. With any luck, this would be her only cocktail for the evening, and she wouldn’t have to tell him what she was drinking.
She accepted the drink, thanked the waiter, and allowed herself a sip before returning her attention to Conrad Waite. Up close like this, she could see the hard lines running from his nose to his mouth, fainter lines etched around those steel-gray eyes. Obviously, he didn’t see the need for any cosmetic work to hang on to his lost youth. “So are you a native?” Cassidy inquired.
“Of Chicago? No. I’m here on business.”
“Oh, really?” It was harder than she’d thought to make herself sound innocent and interested at the same time, and not at all suspicious, considering she couldn’t help wondering what that “business” might be.
“I’m an exec with MonAg.” He said it as if she should be impressed.
Actually, his admission startled her, and then she realized it was a good cover, since it meant no one would question how much he spent on fancy bars and fine dining. And it was partly true, since he did work for MonAg…although she doubted he’d ever seen the inside of an office, unless it was to deliver a report on his latest nefarious acts. Probably not, though. Whoever was pulling his strings would probably make damn sure that there was no way of connecting them.
“That’s impressive,” she replied.
A shrug as he took another sip from his drink. “It pays the bills. What about you?”
She’d cooked up a cover story, one that would explain her presence here but, she hoped, wouldn’t cause him to ask too many questions. “Oh, I’m here for a cousin’s wedding.” Most of the men of her acquaintance, let alone hardboiled killers, didn’t want to know anything about weddings, and would do whatever they could to avoid the topic, so she figured that was a safe lie.
It seemed Conrad Waite was like his brethren in that aversion, as he smiled weakly and said, “Oh,” in flat tones.
“It’s her third, so I can
’t get too excited about it, but it did give me a chance to come back to Chicago. I do like this town.”
“What about it do you like?”
She hesitated, mind racing. Her experience of Chicago encompassed a grand total of about six hours. Then she sipped at her drink before replying, “The food…the shopping.” A pause, one in which she lifted her eyes from the drink she held and forced herself to look directly at him. “The people you meet.”
“Really?” His voice was softer now, had a silky edge she recognized from the other times in her life when men wanted to get down to the serious part of a seduction. “And do you meet so many people?”
“A few,” she allowed, then gave a sideways glance at him through her eyelashes. “I’m actually fairly particular.”
“I like that in a woman.”
Should she giggle? No, it would sound forced. She settled for giving him a slow smile, one she hoped promised all sorts of future delights. “Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“What’s that?”
“I think I like you.”
He moved his chair a little closer to hers. “Do you? Why?”
She sipped her drink, pretending to consider his question. “You have amazing eyes, you know.”
“I do?”
Since it seemed the time was ripe for a little physical contact, she reached out and laid her hand on his arm, gave it a playful squeeze. Or as much of a squeeze as she could manage, as his muscles felt like rock under her fingertips. “I can’t be the first woman who’s told you that.”
“Well….” He lifted his shoulders again. “Maybe I’ve heard it once or twice.”
Oh, please. She tried not to think about how those flinty eyes were probably the last thing a lot of people saw. “See, I was worried I wasn’t being original.”
“I think you’re original,” he told her, leaning closer still. “When you walked in, you made every straight man in the place turn around and look at you. There’s something…intriguing…about you.”
Cassidy gave what she hoped was a casual laugh. “Oh, well, maybe they don’t get a lot of Texas girls in here.” And probably even fewer freighter jockeys, she mentally added, sipping at her drink and praying that he wouldn’t see any more in her than he wanted to see.
“Probably not.” He drank as well, but his eyes never left her. “Makes me think I might want to visit Texas in the near future.”
She smiled, but inwardly she was worrying that she’d bit off more than she could chew here. All right, she’d done some quick study on Texas, knew enough that people still raised cattle there, although the oil industry was as defunct as the internal-combustion engines it had once powered. Fort Dallas was the biggest town, and it tended to be hot and humid. That was about all she’d crammed into her brain, but if Waite really started asking questions, she was sunk.
“Oh, I think there are probably far more interesting places a man like you could visit,” she demurred.
“Such as?”
Was it too early? Probably not, judging by the predatory way his gaze raked over her. He didn’t look like a man who was willing to pass up an opportunity to get laid…and although his eyes were sharp and somehow unsettling, there was just the slightest looseness to his movements that led her to believe he’d had a drink or two before he sat down at her table.
Wrapping a strand of hair around one finger, she tilted her head to one side and said, “Well…my suite at the Cosmopolitan, for one. They have very good room service.” Then, trying to seem as casual as possible, she lifted her drink and took another measured sip.
Something in his eyes flickered, but otherwise he barely reacted. “Do they?”
“Yes. And there’s a great view, although of course at night you can’t see much.”
Deliberately, he reached out and ran a finger down the bare skin of her forearm. “I don’t think I’d be looking at Lake Michigan.”
Don’t shudder, whatever you do. Somehow she managed to force a smile and said, “Probably not….” She let the words trail off, and then giggled a bit. “Oh, where are my manners? I’m Bethany Whitcomb.”
He smiled as well, although to her the expression looked as humorless and predatory as the grin of a shark. “Randall Newsome.”
“Well, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Randall. So…now that we’re formally introduced….”
The grin widened. “Bethany, I would love to share some room service with you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Although intellectually Derek knew that pacing didn’t do any good, he couldn’t help himself from walking back and forth across the sculpted carpet floor of the suite, every syllable of Cassidy’s conversation being sent from the handheld in his pocket to the small bud in his left ear. Who could have guessed she was such a skillful flirt? In their own acquaintance, she’d been entirely straightforward and matter-of-fact.
But that, he realized, was because she respected him. She only played games with the people she didn’t care about.
Even so, it was excruciating to listen to their conversation but not know exactly what was going on, although he could guess. The killer was probably sitting far closer to her than he should, might have already reached out to touch her — a hand on top of hers, a caress along her arm, maybe even a brush against her thigh if he was feeling particularly bold. And she’d let him, because the whole point was to draw him out of the Borealis and get him up to their suite.
After that…well, once upon a time, Derek had considered himself a pacifist. Now he knew he’d do whatever it took to get the truth out of Waite. Not kill the man, he hoped, although some ice-cold part of him knew the best thing to do would be to get rid of him once he’d confessed to Theo’s murder. But that would make Derek no better than Conrad Waite, and so he knew he would never go to such extremities.
Otherwise, he’d taken what precautions he could. The suite itself wasn’t under surveillance, but of course the elevators and hallways were. However, the system wasn’t so sophisticated that he couldn’t disable the micro-cams embedded in the ceiling directly above the door. And although they’d had to use their false I.D.s to check in here — the Cosmopolitan wasn’t exactly the sort of place that rented rooms by the hour and took cash — he could always contact their benefactor and explain that their current identities had been compromised and that they needed new ones. And then pray they’d actually be forthcoming.
The excruciating flirtation streaming into his earbud ceased, and he realized Waite was paying for their drinks and that he and Cassidy were about to leave the bar. Derek glanced at his chronometer. He’d timed the cab ride she’d taken to get to the Borealis, and between that and the elevator ride from the suite, the whole thing had taken roughly eight minutes. That time could change slightly, based on street traffic and how busy the elevators might be, but at least it gave him a ballpark idea of when he might expect them to return.
He’d been back and forth on this, wondering if he should just lurk behind the door and then smash Waite over the head with a lamp or something, but that didn’t seem like a very good plan. It was Cassidy who’d convinced him that he needed to be patient, that he needed to wait until she had the contract killer relaxed, and then make his move.
“So, what, I’m supposed to wait until you’re in bed together?” Derek had asked with some sarcasm, and she shot him an impatient look and said,
“Of course not. But maybe after a little champagne, some food….”
The champagne had actually given him the idea. It was easy enough to call down to the concierge desk and request some sleep medication. Derek had popped open a few capsules, extracted the powder within, and made up a little packet that he’d hidden behind one of the sofa cushions. All Cassidy would have to do was pour it into Waite’s drink when he wasn’t looking, and that would be enough to slow him down. Probably not knock him out altogether, especially if he was fighting it, but it would give Derek the edge he needed.
So he went back to
his room, sat down on the bed, and waited. A ding in his earbud told him they’d most likely just entered the elevator, although, since they weren’t talking at the moment, he wasn’t sure which floor they were on or how much longer it would take before they reached the suite.
Those questions were answered a few minutes later as he heard voices in the living area of the suite, followed by laughter.
“No, let me get the vid on so we can look at the menu,” Cassidy said, still sounding bubbly and giddy and quite unlike her usual self. “Do you like champagne?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“No one I know.” A brief silence as they apparently were perusing the menu. “Oh, and lobster patties!”
“Sounds good,” Waite said, and something about the smug satisfaction in his voice — the voice of a man who knew he was about to get lucky — made Derek want to charge out of the room and punch him in the nose.
But of course he would never do that, although he was ready to move quickly if things got out of hand. The one good thing about Conrad Waite, however — if you could even call it that — was that he might be a killer, but he wasn’t a rapist. His whole game was seduction, not force. And since Cassidy knew all about that game beforehand, she should be able to handle things.
In his earbud, he heard Cassidy placing the room service order, with the little addendum that she’d make it worth the hotel’s while if they could get the food and champagne up here as quickly as possible. Derek had a feeling that wouldn’t be a problem; people in the high-end suites tended to get privileged treatment.
“All this suite for you?” Waite asked once she was done, and Derek winced.
“I don’t like to feel cramped,” Cassidy replied with a laugh in her tone. “Actually, I’d booked a smaller suite, but it had plumbing issues, so they upgraded me.”
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