Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,98
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.
Keith holds up a heavy crystal tumbler of amber liquid. We toast, not saying a word.
“People always assume I’m claustrophobic. You know, all that time in the coffin. Except that’s the point. I spent so many days, weeks, in a pine box, I had no choice but to grow comfortable with it. Make it my home.”
“I still wear scarves,” he says at last.
It takes me a moment; then I get it. His cousin was strangled with a silk scarf. Touché.
I raise my seltzer in acknowledgment, allow myself to relax a fraction on the too-low, too-small love seat.
“Bring any of your true-crime buddies here?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We generally meet at someone’s house. When you’re spreading out crime scene photos, it tends to disturb others.”
“I think Jeeves could take it.”
“Jeeves?”
“The guy who greeted us.”
“His name is Tony.”
“Really? That doesn’t seem right at all.”
He shrugs, takes a sip of his scotch. “Now who’s typecasting?”
I almost stick my tongue out him. At the last minute, it occurs to me that would be childish, and I’m supposed to be the serious avenger sort.
“I think you can fit in this room,” he says shortly, his gaze directly on mine. “I think you’re strong and smart and can go anywhere you want to go and be anything you want to be.”
“No.”
The word comes out hard and matter-of-fact. Keith doesn’t push it, just waits.
“I work at a pizza shop. Which, oh shit, I was supposed to be at this afternoon. So from that alone, I’m not even a good pizza employee. I never finished college. I’ll never get a degree.”