In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(127)

The limo slowed just as he hung up. She looked out. It was not a police station. It was the fa?ade of a luxury hotel.

“Michael?” she said sharply. “What the hell? I said the police!”

“I have a better idea,” he said smoothly. “Hear me out.” He held up his hand to forestall her protests. “I keep a suite here the entire season. They have an excellent chef. The police commissioner, Zabretti, is a personal friend of mine and Renato’s. I’ve dined with him many times. He speaks fluent English. I called him to tell him about you. As soon as he finishes his current business, he’ll be right over. In the meantime, you can sit down someplace safe and comfortable, have a cup of tea, maybe even shower and change your—”

“I don’t give a shit about my clothes! This is more important than my dinner fashion choices, Michael! This can’t wait!”

“Certainly not, which is why it should be done right!” he retorted. “What’s the point of going to the station, where you’ll just wait for a long time in a hard plastic chair to talk to a series of thick, uncomprehending bureaucratic underlings before you even find someone capable of listening to you? Commissario Zabretti should come to you! You deserve it, after your ordeal! In the meantime, drink some tea or have a glass of wine and something to eat! I’ve ordered dinner. From the looks of you, you haven’t eaten, am I right?”

She was staring straight at him, but she saw right through him, as if he were a ghost, or a fantasy. The skeletons in that hole, burned into her memory, were more vivid than he was. White flowers were twining around tiny rib bones, and he wanted her to sip some tea?

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

He made an impatient sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’ll be very light. Steamed sea bass with lemon and herbs, salad, grilled vegetables, a nice chilled Pinot. You must eat. I’m sure even your pit bull would agree with me. Much as he thinks I’m opportunistic scum.”

She flinched. “Don’t, please.”

Michael got out of the car and held out his hand.

She stared at it, still frozen. It was true. She was being hysterical and childish, spitefully refusing him just because she’d had the mother of all bad days. And because he was not Sam. That was not his fault.

She got out of the car, but she did not take his hand.

The suite he kept on the fifth floor was large and very beautiful. A table was set for two. White tapers twinkled. A wine bucket had a bottle chilling in it. A tea tray on a sideboard. Cream, sugar, lemon. Chocolate-dipped butter cookies. It was surreal.

“Ah, that’s better.” Hazlett shrugged off his jacket. “Wine or tea?”

She struggled with the question for a moment. “Tea,” she croaked.

“Sit,” he said briskly. “Zabretti should be here soon.”

She collapsed into a chair. He poured her tea and stirred a heaping teaspoonful of sugar into it. “You look like you’re about to go into shock,” he scolded. “You don’t take good enough care of yourself.”

If only he knew. The tea was too sweet, but her wiped-out brain could use the fuel. She needed to be cogent, for Zabretti.

After her tea was drained, he poured and sugared another. “So tell me, now,” Hazlett said. “What happened?”

“I found out why my mother was murdered,” she said. “She’d been investigating a crime. Hundreds of boat people from Africa killed in illegal medical experiments and buried in a cave.”

Hazlett’s jaw dangled. “My God. I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

She shrugged. There was nothing he could say that would be pertinent, so he might as well shut up. But no such luck. He rattled on.

“You have proof? In there?” He indicated the plastic envelope.

Her hand tightened on the plastic envelope as she gulped more tea. She was afraid to let go of it, even for a second. It could disappear in a puff of smoke. She felt like she’d been chasing the damn thing half her life.

“Tell me more,” he urged. “How on earth did you figure it out? It’s amazing, Svetlana. Not that I’m surprised, having seen you in action.”

She wished he’d stop kissing her ass, since she really didn’t want him that close to it. “I have to tell the commissario all about it,” she hedged. “Please, don’t make me say it twice.”

“Of course not,” he murmured hastily. “You must be so tired.”

“May I use your phone?” she asked suddenly. “I lost mine.”

“Certainly.” He pulled it out. “Who do you want to call?”

“The detective I talked to yesterday,” she said.

Michael looked worried. “Don’t you think you should let Zabretti handle this? The detective you talked to yesterday won’t be investigating a crime that took place in another jurisdiction anyway—”

“I don’t give a shit about the politics of jurisdiction,” she said sharply. “I just want everyone to know about this. As soon as possible.”

“I know,” he soothed. “Please, just talk to Zabretti first. He’ll be here any minute, and, and he—ah! Here’s dinner! Let’s discuss it after.”

Time dragged like a ball and chain. Her stomach was perplexed by food. The very small quantity that she managed to swallow seemed a lump of some alien substance that it had never encountered before, and had no idea what to do with. The luxurious place felt so fake. A fa?ade.