“What are you reading?” I asked, walking up to her. Right away I noticed that she’d held a chair open for me with her purse and a wrap. Or maybe it was just a way to prevent some of those male gawkers from hitting on her.
“Well, hi there,” she said, greeting me with a kiss on the cheek. Her scent was lavender. She turned the book so I could see the cover. It was a biography of René Descartes.
“Ah, yes. A little light reading while waiting for a table,” I joked. There was nothing light about Descartes.
“Actually, I was thinking we could eat right here, if you don’t mind.” She put down the book and scooped up her purse and wrap from the vacant chair, hanging both on a hook by her knees. “I always find that the drinks come faster when you sit at the bar.”
“I like where your head is at,” I said, taking a seat. “Faster drinks can be a good thing, especially on a first date.”
“Is that what this is?” she asked. For a second, she looked a bit put off by my calling it that, but I saw right through her. She was messing with me.
“Nice try, Professor,” I said.
“Good for you,” she replied, flashing a smile. “You don’t fool easily.”
“Not as easily as most.”
Sadira motioned to the nearest bartender. “No more grape juice,” she announced, pushing away her glass of wine. “I think it’s time we take it up a notch.”
I almost felt like one of the guys gawking at her as she ordered a couple of Blanton’s for us, her just assuming that I would enjoy a bourbon. She was beautiful, smart, funny, and liked to throw a few back. A killer combination, you might say.
“No luck with a reservation at that new Italian you mentioned, huh?” I asked. “Not that I don’t love this restaurant. Who doesn’t?”
Gramercy Tavern was the very definition of iconic in Manhattan. It was synonymous with the city. The warm wood and earth-tone décor. The impeccable service. And, most of all, the food itself. Ninety-nine percent of all restaurants will open and shut down without ever winning a James Beard award. Gramercy Tavern has won nine.
“To be perfectly honest, I didn’t even try that other place,” she said. “With what’s happened this week, the bombings, I suddenly realized the last thing I wanted was new and different.”
“Taking comfort from the tried and true,” I said as our bourbons were placed in front of us. “I get it.”
“I feel ashamed to admit this, but I can’t even watch coverage of it anymore. The funerals. Learning the life stories of all the victims. That’s awful of me to say, isn’t it?”
“Hardly,” I replied. “I remember reading this article after 9/11. People who weren’t from here couldn’t fathom how quickly New Yorkers seemed to go about their lives again as if we were somehow less affected than the rest of the country.” I motioned to the rest of the bar, everyone enjoying themselves. “But this? This is as human as it gets. When surrounded by death is when we most need to feel alive.”
Sadira grabbed her bourbon, raising it toward me. “To feeling alive,” she said. “To being alive.”
“Yes,” I said, clinking her glass. “Here’s to being alive.”
CHAPTER 96
SADIRA LED the charge. We were on our third round of bourbons before we even cracked the menus. By the time our entrées landed in front of us, we were five deep and heading for six. If Sadira was trying to kill me, she’d chosen a method I didn’t see coming. Alcohol poisoning.
“Okay, so I have to ask,” I said as the bartender cleared our dinner plates. Sea bass for her, the duck for me. “Did you google me after we met at the courthouse?”
She gave me a sheepish grin. “Why would I ever do that? I know who you are.”
“That’s a non-denial denial.”
Sadira shot up straight on her chair, raising her right hand as if being sworn in. “I solemnly swear that I did not google Professor Dylan Reinhart before coming here tonight,” she said. “How’s that?”
“Better.”
“Besides, I prefer to do my research in person.”
“So what have you learned so far?” I asked.
“That the only person who did any googling after the courthouse was you.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“And what did you discover?” she asked. “What does the internet have to say about Sadira Yavari?”
“That you’re a beloved philosophy professor at NYU and have been published numerous times,” I said.
“Ah, but only one of us has written a bestseller involving serial killers.”
“Not that you’ve read it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“That’s another non-denial denial,” I said.
“I actually did read your book.”
“Really? What did you think?”
“It was a little dry in places.” She held a straight face before breaking into a laugh. “No, I’m kidding. I thought it was fascinating.”
“For example?”
“Are you fishing for more compliments or trying to make sure I really read it?”
“Both.”
“It’s how you dispel the traditional notion of abnormal psychology, especially with most serial killers,” she said. “The way they rationalize their behavior is that they don’t rationalize at all. They’re doing what they think is absolutely necessary. It’s what they believe in to their very core.”
“I thought you might say that. I imagine it dovetails with what you teach regarding epistemology.”
“Yes,” she said. “The role that justified belief plays in society, which these days is really about only one thing.”
“Religion,” I said.
She nodded. “And let’s face it, only one religion in particular.”
“Which happens to be your religion, I’m assuming.”
She nodded again. “On the plus side, my being a Shia all but guarantees me tenure. A real live Muslim delving into the minds of terrorists for the so-called liberal elites? It’s my gig as long as I want it.”
“Cynicism and sarcasm, all in the same breath,” I said. “You really are a New Yorker.”
“Farther away from home than Dorothy, that’s for sure.”
“How often do you get back?” I asked.
“To Iran? It’s been a while,” she said. I waited to see if she would add anything about her scheduled flight to Tehran. She didn’t. The pause turned awkward. “Was I supposed to keep talking?”
“No, sorry.” Think quickly, Dylan. “That was me debating my next question in my head. I fear it might be a bit sexist.”
“Ah,” she said with a nod. “You want to know how I’m not married or even have a boyfriend.”
“I’d never survive those liberal elites at NYU, would I?”
“Yale is hardly turning out many William F. Buckleys these days.”
Good point. “Does that mean you will or won’t answer the question, though?” I asked.
Sadira motioned to the bartender as she threw back the last of bourbon number six. “It means we now order one more round and then maybe, just maybe, we’ll explore the subject of my sex life.”
She placed a hand on my forearm for a brief moment, the sort of flirty gesture that lasts just long enough to blur the line between innocent and suggestive. Her beauty was her edge, and it was enough to make most any man lose his.
Of course, most men would’ve probably thought that was just a pretty necklace she had on.
Why are you using Halo, Sadira?
What are your plans for me?
CHAPTER 97
“LET’S GET out of here,” I said.
I pulled out four hundred dollars in cash—welcome to Manhattan—and placed it under my empty bourbon glass.
“Thank you,” said Sadira. “I’ve got the next one.”
The next one? Irony.
I knew she couldn’t say no to leaving with me. Besides, she wasn’t about to kill me in front of all these witnesses. I’d probably taken the words
right out of her mouth. Let’s get out of here.
But where?
I held the door for her as we walked out of the restaurant. She never turned back to me once she hit the sidewalk. Instead, she made a beeline for the curb and a waiting taxi. You can always bank on one outside Gramercy Tavern.
“Jane Street, corner of Hudson,” she told the driver.
We were going to her place in the West Village. Only I couldn’t let on that I knew where she lived. “Is that your—”
“Yes, my place,” she said. She turned to me, holding my stare. “I don’t usually do this.”
“Neither do I.”
“That’s good. Perfect,” she said. “We can both not usually do this together.”
I would’ve laughed at that line were it not for her suddenly leaning in to kiss me. She pressed her lips softly against mine, keeping them there for only a second, as if to tease me for what was to come. There was barely any time for me to kiss her back, and that was the point. I might have been the one to suggest getting out of here, but I was hardly in charge. She was.
That’s good. Perfect. You keep thinking that, Sadira.
We rode in silence the rest of the way. After we passed Union Square, she reached over and held my hand. Only when we arrived at her place did she let go.
“At least let me pay for the cab,” she said, taking out her wallet.
I would’ve bet the cost of dinner and then some that Sadira didn’t live in a doorman building. That would’ve defeated the purpose of her wearing Halo. No, I fully expected to be walking into a brownstone. The surprise, though, was that it wasn’t merely a brownstone. It was her brownstone. All of it.
“Just how much are they paying you at NYU?” I joked as she led me into the foyer. It opened into a massive living room beyond which was a kitchen that would’ve made Martha Stewart jealous. And this was only the first floor.
“Family money,” she said without any hesitation.
It was possible. Or maybe it was just a straight-up lie. The point was, I couldn’t tell. Not with anything about her. Was any of this real? I didn’t think so, but damn, she was convincing in every way.
From the get-go I’d felt there was more to Sadira than met the eye, and nothing about that had changed. Until now.
Now it was more than a feeling. I was sure of it. One way or another, I was about to learn the truth.
As Sadira put down her purse and wrap, there was no doubt that she had me exactly where she wanted me. This was home-field advantage.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said.
CHAPTER 98
SOME THINGS you simply don’t need to be taught. For example, if someone wants to kill you, the last thing you should do is turn your back on her.
I extended my arm toward her staircase. “After you,” I said.
We walked up to the second floor and down a short hallway to what was clearly her bedroom. The sheer size of it, for starters. Also the books piled up on her nightstand, most with dog-eared pages. This was definitely where she slept. Among other things.
Sadira slipped out of her heels and dimmed the lights. What exactly are we about to do?
It was hard enough playing it straight, so to speak, back in the cab when she kissed me. This was shaping up to be a little more than kissing. Or was that simply what she wanted me to think?
In poker, sometimes you wait for the bluff. Other times, you have to draw it out. “Come here,” I whispered to her.
Never mind that the last time I’d been with a woman was my freshman year in college. It was a Let’s just make sure I’m gay encounter and, as I barely recall, it involved about the same amount of alcohol as the bourbon merry-go-round back at Gramercy Tavern.
“Who, me?” Sadira playfully whispered back.
“Yes, you,” I said. “All of you.”
She slowly walked toward me, her eyes trained on mine. I could swear she never blinked. Then, only inches away, she spun around. “Can you unzip me?” she asked, pushing her long brown hair to the side.
I reached for the zipper, pulling it halfway down her back. “How about the necklace?” I asked. “Do you need help with that?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ve got it,” she said. “It’s a little tricky.”
You’re telling me …
I waited for her to turn around to face me again. Instead, she headed for her walk-in closet. “I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder.
Sadira closed the door behind her. And like that, she was gone. So much for not letting her out of my sight. I couldn’t see her or anything she was doing.
Of course, the same was true with me.
A minute later, she reappeared. She was standing in the doorway of her closet, wearing a plush white robe and seemingly nothing else. Gone was her Halo necklace.
“Take your clothes off,” she said.
Only there was nothing sexy about it. There wasn’t even a smile. At least, I’m pretty sure there wasn’t.
I was too busy staring at the gun pointed at me.
CHAPTER 99
“I’M DEAD serious,” she said, tightening the grip on a Russianmade Makarov with a suppressor attached. “Strip.”
She’d hidden the gun in her closet. Now she wanted to make sure I wasn’t hiding one as well.
“What the hell’s going on?” I asked.
Nothing more, apparently, until I started undressing. Sadira just stood there with the gun aimed at my chest.
Okay, we’ll do it your way. For now …
I removed my sport coat, tossing it on the bed behind me before motioning to my ribs. Look, see? No holster.
Next came my dress shirt. I intentionally fumbled with the buttons.
“Faster,” she said.
I ignored her. “I know who you are. I know who you’ve killed,” I said. “And I’m not the only one who knows.”
“You think you have me all figured out, huh?”
“What more is there to tell?”
“Maybe nothing,” she said. “You’re right, I’ve killed before. I’ll kill again if I have to.” She jabbed the gun toward my shirt. “Faster!”
I stopped fumbling with the buttons. The shirt was off within seconds. Look, see? I’m not wearing a wire …
My belt came next, followed by my pants. Or so it appeared. The zipper came down only halfway. Ever so slightly I shifted my feet, widening my stance.
This had to look natural. The pants had to fall just right.
“That was a nice necklace you had on tonight,” I said. “How did you get your hands on Halo?”
She smirked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Not a clue, right?”
“Nope.”
“What about my phone?” I asked.
“Your phone?”
“Yeah,” I said. “The one sending a live feed to the van parked outside across the street.”
That’s all it took. I motioned to her dresser and my phone propped up against a jewelry box, the camera lens angled directly on her. Never mind that the camera wasn’t even turned on or, for that matter, no surveillance van was parked across the street. All I needed was a moment’s distraction.
The second her eyes locked on my phone, I let go of my pants. As fast as gravity, I lunged down to my Glock strapped to the side of my right calf. By the time she was looking back at me again, we were now both staring down the wrong end of a gun.
“I don’t know about you,” I said, “but this is some pretty funky foreplay.”
CHAPTER 100
“DROP IT!” she said.
“That’s not how this works. We either both lower the gun or we don’t.”
“Great, you first.”
She clearly had limited exposure to Mexican standoffs. “Why do you want to kill me?” I asked.
“I don’t,” she said.
“All evidence to the contrary.”
“I just wanted to make sure.”
“Of what?”
“Tha
t you weren’t going to kill me,” she said.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you don’t know the truth.”
“You mean, now that I have a gun pointed at you? That’s when you want to tell me the truth?”
Sadira glanced at my phone propped up against her jewelry box. “That’s not really recording, is it?”
“Nope.”
All the same, she sidestepped over and dropped my phone in her top drawer. Not once did she take her eyes off me.
“Yes, I killed the MIT professor,” she said. “Jahan Darvish.”
“That’s not bad for starters,” I said. “Well, actually it was pretty bad for him. And the way you did it, too. Very kinky but very clever. What else you got for me?”
Sadira squinted, trying to read between the lines. “There was another nuclear physicist. Also an Iranian,” she said.
“What about the third one?”
I was baiting her for intel I didn’t have. She didn’t bite, though. Or, more likely, she was actually telling the truth.
“There is no third one,” she said. “Only those two. And both for the same reason. If you lower your gun, I’ll explain.”
“Again, not how it works,” I said. “Ladies first.”
“On one condition. You need to believe I don’t want to kill you.”
I suddenly did believe that. Still, I couldn’t afford to be wrong. “I’ve never wanted to kill anyone, Sadira. But that hasn’t stopped me when it was necessary.”
“Me neither,” she said. And with that, she knelt and placed her gun on the floor.
I met her halfway. I lowered my arm. But I wasn’t quite ready to let go of my gun. “Okay, I’m listening,” I said.
“Darvish? The other nuclear physicist in London? They weren’t double agents.”
“Who said they were?”
“MI6, for one. Your former employer, for another.”
“How would you know that about me?” I asked. Except I already had more than a hunch.
“Ask me first about Darvish,” she said. “What he was really doing.”
“In other words, the reason why you killed him.”
If she could explain that, I didn’t need to ask about MI6’s informant in London.
Killer Instinct Page 21
