Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(68)

“Okay, so I have to ask,” I said as the bartender cleared our dinner plates. Sea bass for her, the duck for me. “Did you google me after we met at the courthouse?”

She gave me a sheepish grin. “Why would I ever do that? I know who you are.”

“That’s a non-denial denial.”

Sadira shot up straight on her chair, raising her right hand as if being sworn in. “I solemnly swear that I did not google Professor Dylan Reinhart before coming here tonight,” she said. “How’s that?”

“Better.”

“Besides, I prefer to do my research in person.”

“So what have you learned so far?” I asked.

“That the only person who did any googling after the courthouse was you.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“And what did you discover?” she asked. “What does the internet have to say about Sadira Yavari?”

“That you’re a beloved philosophy professor at NYU and have been published numerous times,” I said.

“Ah, but only one of us has written a bestseller involving serial killers.”

“Not that you’ve read it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“That’s another non-denial denial,” I said.

“I actually did read your book.”

“Really? What did you think?”

“It was a little dry in places.” She held a straight face before breaking into a laugh. “No, I’m kidding. I thought it was fascinating.”

“For example?”

“Are you fishing for more compliments or trying to make sure I really read it?”

“Both.”

“It’s how you dispel the traditional notion of abnormal psychology, especially with most serial killers,” she said. “The way they rationalize their behavior is that they don’t rationalize at all. They’re doing what they think is absolutely necessary. It’s what they believe in to their very core.”

“I thought you might say that. I imagine it dovetails with what you teach regarding epistemology.”

“Yes,” she said. “The role that justified belief plays in society, which these days is really about only one thing.”

“Religion,” I said.

She nodded. “And let’s face it, only one religion in particular.”

“Which happens to be your religion, I’m assuming.”

She nodded again. “On the plus side, my being a Shia all but guarantees me tenure. A real live Muslim delving into the minds of terrorists for the so-called liberal elites? It’s my gig as long as I want it.”

“Cynicism and sarcasm, all in the same breath,” I said. “You really are a New Yorker.”

“Farther away from home than Dorothy, that’s for sure.”

“How often do you get back?” I asked.

“To Iran? It’s been a while,” she said. I waited to see if she would add anything about her scheduled flight to Tehran. She didn’t. The pause turned awkward. “Was I supposed to keep talking?”

“No, sorry.” Think quickly, Dylan. “That was me debating my next question in my head. I fear it might be a bit sexist.”

“Ah,” she said with a nod. “You want to know how I’m not married or even have a boyfriend.”

“I’d never survive those liberal elites at NYU, would I?”

“Yale is hardly turning out many William F. Buckleys these days.”

Good point. “Does that mean you will or won’t answer the question, though?” I asked.

Sadira motioned to the bartender as she threw back the last of bourbon number six. “It means we now order one more round and then maybe, just maybe, we’ll explore the subject of my sex life.”

She placed a hand on my forearm for a brief moment, the sort of flirty gesture that lasts just long enough to blur the line between innocent and suggestive. Her beauty was her edge, and it was enough to make most any man lose his.

Of course, most men would’ve probably thought that was just a pretty necklace she had on.

Why are you using Halo, Sadira?

What are your plans for me?





CHAPTER 97


“LET’S GET out of here,” I said.

I pulled out four hundred dollars in cash—welcome to Manhattan—and placed it under my empty bourbon glass.

“Thank you,” said Sadira. “I’ve got the next one.”

The next one? Irony.

I knew she couldn’t say no to leaving with me. Besides, she wasn’t about to kill me in front of all these witnesses. I’d probably taken the words right out of her mouth. Let’s get out of here.

But where?

I held the door for her as we walked out of the restaurant. She never turned back to me once she hit the sidewalk. Instead, she made a beeline for the curb and a waiting taxi. You can always bank on one outside Gramercy Tavern.

“Jane Street, corner of Hudson,” she told the driver.

We were going to her place in the West Village. Only I couldn’t let on that I knew where she lived. “Is that your—”

“Yes, my place,” she said. She turned to me, holding my stare. “I don’t usually do this.”