You Owe Me a Murder(37)

“She may not have the same amount of money, but of course she is.”

Nicki picked out a cashew from the nut bowl and popped it into her mouth. “Really? What do you base that on? Tell me what she provides. Not tax dollars—?I can guarantee she’s not declaring what she makes or steals. She doesn’t work in a job that helps people or moves the economy forward. She doesn’t create art or music to lift the human spirit.” Nicki scoffed. “Hell, she didn’t even smell good.”

The contents of my stomach rose up in revolt. “That’s a disgusting thing to say about someone.”

“No, that’s the truth. Some people are simply more valuable to society. I’m not saying she’s worthless, just that she’s not worth as much. Pretending that everyone is the same so we can all feel better is foolish. We talked about this at the airport—?about how we’re smarter than other people. I thought you got it.”

“Being smarter than someone else doesn’t make us better.” My passion wasn’t about being politically correct, it was about what was right. Deciding some lives were worth more than others was . . . repulsive.

“Of course it does.” She leaned forward again, elbows on the table. “Imagine you need to have surgery and the hospital offers you two doctors. One’s a specialist with thirty years of experience and a degree from Harvard. The other is a new grad from some mail-order medical school and doesn’t even has his zipper up when he comes out to meet you. Which doctor would you select?”

“This is stupid,” I said.

“No, I’m making a point. You’d choose the experienced doctor, right?”

“Yes, but that’s not the same thing as judging people by race or gender.”

Nicki threw her head back in annoyance. “I don’t give a fig whistle about race or gender—?I’m talking about value. Connor was of very limited value—?he was shallow, vain, and a wanker. And even if you don’t want to admit it, the scientist in you knows it’s fact. Some things are worth more, and so are some people. Deep down you think you’re better.”

“No, I don’t.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “And even if I did, that doesn’t mean you can just”—?I made myself lower my voice—?“kill someone you don’t see as useful.”

“Well, certainly not everyone. Just the ones in my way.” Her voice was light, as if she were discussing a church social.

“Connor wasn’t in your way!”

She pointed at me. “No, he was in yours. My mother’s in my way, which brings us full circle to what we started to discuss. You owe me a murder.” Nicki tucked her hair behind her ears, the curls springing free. “She drinks all the time—?I think it will be fairly easy to make it look like an accident, but you need to pick a time when I have an airtight alibi. The police will look at me otherwise—?I’m dripping with motive.”

I pushed back from the table so quickly that the chair made a loud squealing protest. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I bolted toward the back of the pub, following the tiny WC signs.

The door to the restroom banged open and I was relieved there was no one else inside. I bent over the toilet, certain I was going to puke, but nothing came up except sour spit. After a minute, I went to the sink and splashed cold water onto my face.

She was completely insane. I’d thought it was bad enough that she might have killed Connor to get back at him if he’d hurt her, but to kill him for no personal reason at all was sick.

I stood looking in the mirror, trying to figure out what I should do. I suddenly had the perfect idea. I’d get a photo of her, and then I could at least show it to Alex. Maybe that would prove that she existed, and we could somehow connect her to the newspaper article she had sent me.

I burst out of the bathroom and nearly plowed into a waitress carrying a large tray. I dodged around a group of people clustered at the bar, holding my phone out in front of me as if it were a stop sign, ready to snap the picture. Then I froze in place, my arm sinking slowly back down to my side.

Our table was empty except for our two drinks, the condensation on the glass puddling around them. My jacket still sat on the back of the chair, but Nicki was gone. I looked around, searching the faces of the packed pub, but she wasn’t there.

“She took off,” I said softly.

“Here you go.” A waitress placed a bill down onto the table.

“Did you see the girl who was sitting here?”

She shrugged. “No, sorry.”

I shoved past her so I could see the bar. “Where’s the guy who was our waiter? Dark hair, mustache?”

“Simon? His shift’s over. He left.”

I wanted to grab her by the shoulder and shake her. “I need to talk to him.” He’d seen Nicki—?maybe he’d even overheard some of the stuff she’d said.

The waitress smirked. “Sorry, love, I happen to know he’s got a bit on the side already.”

“I don’t want to date him—?I have to ask him a question!”

She wiped her hands on her apron. “You can leave a note if you like, and next time he works, he’ll get it.”

I dropped into the seat. There was no point. “Never mind,” I mumbled.

She tapped the bill on the table with her long fingernail. “You want another drink or would you like to settle up?”