Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(83)

I study him for a long moment. “Want to get a drink?” I hear myself say.

My newest admirer and/or possible serial killer breaks into a smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

—

KEITH HAS AN app for one of the ride-sharing services. He also claims to know a bar. I know plenty of bars myself, but probably not the type he’d feel comfortable frequenting. Not to mention that at quite a few of them, his computer would be stolen in minutes.

If I chased down the robber, took him out with a flying tackle and gallantly returned to Keith with his computer bag, would that earn me a look of adoration, or end the evening abruptly? In movies, everyone loves the kickass heroine. I’m less convinced the average man wants one in real life. Keith looks like he works out, but at the end of the day he’s a tech guy. And I’m, well … me.

Keith takes me to Boylston Street. This is pretty Boston. With high-end boutiques nestled in between historic churches, the architecturally significant public library, and of course, dozens of restaurants and bars. Each window is framed in twinkling Christmas lights, while the ornate streetlamps are capped with glittering wreaths and the row of trees wrapped in dazzling holiday cheer. Keith leads me up four steps to an old stone building, very dark and subdued compared to its neighbors. Which should be my first hint.

We are greeted by a man in a tuxedo who could be anywhere between forty and a hundred. He nods at both of us, his face perfectly impassive. I note two things at once. Keith, in his cashmere sweater and finely tailored slacks, blends perfectly with the wood-paneled foyer. I do not.

Keith is already shedding his outerwear. I remove my ratty down jacket with more reluctance. I like my coat. It has many pockets, each a treasure trove of tools and resources for the vigilante on the go.

The ma?tre d’ holds out his hand. At the last minute, I can’t do it. I clutch my coat to my chest. “I get cold easily,” I say, to justify my decision.

Tuxedo man says nothing, merely turns, hangs up Keith’s coat. Then he leads us into a much larger room, also covered in exquisitely carved walnut panels, and dominated by a gorgeous curved bar bearing a gold-flecked marble top. Around us is a collection of seating areas, some white-draped tables, some antique furniture pulled close for a more intimate feel. A fire crackles impressively from a massive fireplace against the far wall. Our host walks straight toward it, indicates a private arrangement of a single love seat with a spindly coffee table, then stares pointedly at my coat again.

If anything, I clutch it tighter.

“Thank you,” Keith says. Our silent guide nods in acknowledgment, then disappears.

“What is this place?”

Keith has already taken a seat. His legs are so long he has to stretch them out at an angle to avoid the coffee table. I perch awkwardly on the other corner, not liking this seating arrangement at all.

“It’s a private club. There are many of them around the city. Representing various Ivy League universities, special groups—”

“Elite groups.”

“My father’s a member. I picked this bar because I thought it would be quieter, a more private place for us to talk.”

I’m not sure what I think of that. Private is good. But this … This isn’t me. And if he was paying attention at all, surely he recognized that. Meaning this place was what? His way of showing off? Look at my success? Look at what I can buy you?

Mostly, I feel very uncomfortable and wish I’d gone hunting instead.

“What would you like to drink?” he asks.

“Seltzer water.”

He doesn’t comment, just flags down another man in a white tuxedo jacket, this one bearing a silver tray. Keith orders seltzer for me, a single malt for him. I wonder if this is the kind of place women aren’t allowed to order for themselves, or again, if this is Keith’s idea of making a great first impression.

“Do you know the others in the room?” I ask.

Keith looks around. I’ve already taken inventory. The only obvious egress is the arched doorway through which we entered. I would guess the wood paneling on the surrounding walls disguises other options and have to fight the temptation to circle the room and feel out all the seams for myself.

“No,” he says at last.

“Come here often?”

“No.”

“But tonight, hanging out with a girl dressed like me”—I gaze down at my gray sweatshirt, worn cargo pants—“this seemed like a good idea?”

“No one cares,” he tells me.

Which makes me scowl, because of course I care, but like hell I’m going to admit that.

“If someone came up to you, how would you introduce me?” I press.

“Given you’re someone who appreciates your privacy, I would say you were a visiting friend.”

“No name?”

“Only if you want me to.”

I give him slightly more credit for this answer, then resume my working theory that he’s a serial killer, and this is how he lures future victims back to his place. By pretending to be courteous and charming and sensitive. Ted Bundy with access to an elitist club.

“I’m not claustrophobic,” I say abruptly.

He seems to consider the statement, and the second tuxedo man returns with a tray bearing our drinks. He also has a small bowl of what appear to be wasabi-coated nuts. After the pizza, I’m happy with my seltzer, lime wedge perched artistically on the rim.