Deja Who (Insighter #1)(62)

“Trust me, she was as awful as she could be, but not to be awful. Not to just be awful,” Cat amended. “You always, always have to remember what you’re dealing with.”

“Who.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you correcting my grammar, boy?”

“Yeah, it helps me feel closer to the Leah who corrected my grammar and forget the Leah who talked to me like she hates me.”

“First off, it’s ‘whom,’ you doorknob, so you gotta turn in your Grammar Police badge.”

“It is not! It’s ‘who,’ and I don’t have a Gra—”

“Second, she doesn’t hate you. Opposite, in fact. This is a woman who operates almost entirely out of fear while refusing to acknowledge she’s scared shitless pretty much all the time.” Anticipating his question, Cat elaborated. “Scared of putting herself out there, scared of opening up to you, scared of making a friend who doesn’t put ‘feed pigeons chunks of Big Macs’ on her weekly to-do list, scared the world’s gonna drown in aluminum cans because not enough assholes recycle.” She paused. “No. That last one’s something I’m scared of. Leah doesn’t worry much about the planet, just the people who live on it. Scratch the last.”

He shrugged, feeling bitchy. “I dunno. She had a couple of good points.”

“Shut up, don’t buy into that shit,” the mayor ordered. “Depending on my schedule that day I’ll either cut you or smack you upside the head with my platinum Amex.”

She must have been terrifying in office. “So, what? She drove me off like a dog at a picnic for what? Leah’s just gonna just put herself out there? Make herself bait? Write ‘please come stab me, big boy’ on her forehead?”

“Dog at a picnic, heh.” Catching his scowl, Cat shrugged. “Sorry, hilarious mental image. But listen, I think that might be pretty close to the plan. It might even work. Her whole deal is that she’s always passive, always on the sidelines, right? She’s never tried getting in the killer’s face before.”

“She’s never lost her goddamned mind before, either,” he muttered. “I’m pretty sure.”

“I don’t think the killer’s gonna hang around long after doing her mom. He’s gonna have to make his move real soon.”

“Guessing.” He slashed his hand through the air, dismissing the argument. “It’s all just guessing.”

“Yep. But I think Leah’s an accurate judge of his methods. She might not always know who he is, but she remembers enough things to be careful.”

“Except she’s not being careful. Is she?”

“No.”

It’s unreal that we’re even discussing this. Only three weirdos: a shark-eyed Insighter, the rich homeless former mayor of Boston, and . . . well . . . me . . . could have problems like this. Does that make us lucky, or fucked?

They walked in silence for a few moments. “You know what I can’t figure out? Besides almost everything? How someone who thinks she’s a terrible person would go out of her way to protect you and me.”

“She’s her own worst critic,” Cat agreed, “and she’s still terrible. Just not as terrible as she thinks.”

“This whole thing is making me ill. I don’t know dick about serial killers—any kind of killer, since my dad didn’t really kill my uncle—”

“What the frig, Archer! Minor detail I’m only just hearing about!”

“It’s not relevant to this month,” he argued, “so I want to stay on topic. And the topic, horribly, is the guy who wants to kill my shark-eyed sweetie.”

“It’s maybe not relevant, but it adds to the Mystery of Archer. You’re older than her but look younger—”

“I have a really good moisturizer.”

“—you’re a private eye with only one client, now deceased—”

“I needed a vacation anyway.”

“—who lives in a tower with a landlord who’s never there—”

“The economy’s tough and she’s job hunting in California.”

Cat snorted and swung her Target bags. Archer jerked back, saving his nose from getting clipped. “What the hell do you do all day, Archer?”

“Asked the bag lady.”

“Please,” Cat huffed, annoyed, “we prefer the term ‘home-impaired.’”

“I do lots of things,” he replied cheerfully. “After my dad went to prison I helped out my mom by taking on some part-time jobs, blew off college, and decided I liked being a permanent self-appointed temp worker. So I do some Pee Eye stuff and sometimes I dog-sit and sometimes I pick up a few shifts at the diner around the corner from the tower—”

“Waiter?”

“Cook. I dunno how to explain it; those little tiny jobs are all nice but they don’t move me.”

“Be thankful it’s not a career that doesn’t move you. You know how many lawyers I know who hate their jobs? College and law school and they just about cry every morning when their alarm goes off.”

Was there a lawyer anywhere who doesn’t hate being a lawyer? Someone should do a study. “Yeah, and the little jobs are fun until they’re not and then I quit and do something else. I think I’m sort of testing everything out. I’m like a compass with the needle spinning all the time.”