Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(63)

“My God, she’s scary as hell,” Li said as she reached over to engage her seat belt. “I’d rather face off against a dozen bangers than walk into that woman’s autopsy room.” She ran a hand across the back of her neck and then presented her palm to Foster. “Look. Flop sweat. I am literally sweating like I just got caught swiping mascara off the shelf at CVS. Is it me, or is she literally blaming the two of us personally for these deaths?”

“I don’t think it’s us,” Foster said. “She’s as frustrated as we are.”

“You say.” Li slipped on her sunglasses, then glanced over at Foster. “I got definite hostility.” She reached over and turned on the heater. “And now I’m freezing. And it’s fifty degrees outside.” Li rubbed her hands together in front of the vents. “Did you know that about ninety percent of people are right handed? I am. I noticed you are. In the dark times, they thought lefties were witches or hexed by the devil. Might be on the mark in this case.”

“Where do you suggest we look for witches?”

Li settled in, flipping down the visor. “You don’t look for witches, Foster. They find you.”





CHAPTER 42


Amelia sat across the table from the good-looking stranger, smiling. Speed dating. Did people really do this? She sure as hell didn’t, yet here she was, intrigued by the novelty of it and not so much her prospects for a “magical” match. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to come. Something new to do in a bar at night. Her eyes trailed down to the name tag on his chest. Jason. It was likely fake, but she didn’t care.

“Not your scene?” Jason asked. Amelia looked at him, the hint of an appraisal in the glance. He wasn’t bad looking. Nice green eyes, sandy hair, and the dimple in his right cheek was cute.

“It’s . . . new,” she said, taking a sip from her wineglass, watching him over the rim. “Certainly, a way to get out and meet people. Mingle, as they like to say.”

“You don’t usually get out and meet people?”

“I do, but in the wild. The old-fashioned way. Like a person. This?” She scanned the room. Mostly women, a few brave average-looking men. The bar just a bar, not the least bit quaint or elegant. The owners had gone for publican snug. Not her style. “Seems a little forced.”

“I agree. What do you do, Amelia?”

There were those dimples again. “I’m an artist.” There was no reason for her to lie.

He sat back, sipped his ale from the bottle. “That’s impressive. What medium?”

“I’m a painter, primarily. But I also find beautiful things and transform them into things that are more beautiful.”

“You any good?” He was joking. She liked that. It showed confidence.

She stared at him with just a hint of amusement in her smile. “Very.”

“I’ll bet. You know, my cousin used to find old pieces of driftwood on the beach and whittle them into all kinds of things. He was pretty good at it too. You do stuff like that?”

“I have done, though it’s been ages since I’ve been to the beach. Anyway, enough about me. What do you do?”

“I’m an architect. I live in a suit and build things that will last a thousand years, barring nuclear Armageddon.”

Amelia’s eyes wandered just for a second to the other tables. Everyone looked like they were having fun, getting into the groove of things. At the next table sat a balding man in his forties who kept adjusting his blazer cuffs to make sure his Rolex showed. Amelia could tell the watch wasn’t working on the woman across from him. But she forced a smile, nodded a lot, and sipped her Manhattan. It was clear she’d done this before. When the bell rang, marking the five minutes, Mr. Rolex would be Amelia’s problem, and five minutes would feel like forever.

“I’d consider that interesting. Without architects, we’d all be living in caves, right?”

He lifted his bottle. “And without painters, we’d be deprived of beauty. Renoir, Matisse, Vermeer, you. Can you imagine a world without beauty?”

She could, but this was not the time or place to discuss it. There was a timer sitting between them, the tick of seconds winding down. Their five minutes had dwindled down to less than two. Five minutes was just enough to meet, just enough to pique an interest, not long enough for a true connection. It was just long enough to begin to feel trapped if things weren’t going well but still short enough so that the agony had an end point. She glanced over at Mr. Rolex talking a mile a minute, blowing hot air around.

“Not many people could,” she said. “A world without art or creativity or beauty isn’t a world I could live in.”

“Okay, speed round,” Jason said, rubbing his hands together. “Favorite color.”

“Green,” Amelia said as she looked into his clear green eyes. It wasn’t the truth.

She leaned her elbows on the table, getting into the rhythm of the thing. Just for kicks. Just to see. “Your dream city?”

“Easy. Florence.”

She chuckled. “I assume not Missouri?”

He laughed. “Definitely Italy. Vanilla or chocolate?”

Her eyes danced. “Are we talking ice cream or . . .”

The timer sounded. She shrugged playfully. “Time’s up.”