Meant to Be Immortal (Argeneau #32) - Lynsay Sands Page 0,100

do you know that?”

“I can read people and tell when they’re lying and she was telling the truth,” he said.

CJ didn’t tell him that she too could usually read people well and tell if they were lying, and that she felt Laurie had been completely honest with her. She merely turned her attention to the menu.

It didn’t take them long to decide on what they wanted. The minute they closed their menus and set them down, Laurie was back, snatching them up and taking their order. The woman still had worry in her eyes, but her smile was firmly back in place and she was cheerful with them. CJ decided to give her a big tip.

CJ had ordered a Reuben and fries. So had Mac for that matter, and they were ready and on the table pretty quickly. But CJ was only halfway through her meal when a skinny fellow with black hair and a beard slid into the opposite side of the booth.

CJ set her sandwich back on the plate and used her napkin to wipe her hands as she watched the man and waited to see what he had to say.

“Are you that CSI lady?” he asked the minute her eyes met his.

“SIU,” CJ corrected.

“Yeah, her,” he said, and tilted his head, waiting.

It took her a minute to realize he was waiting for her to verify that she was indeed the SIU lady. Apparently, her correcting his abbreviation hadn’t been enough. “Yes, I’m her.”

“Good, good.” He glanced around the restaurant nervously.

“And who are you?” CJ asked, pushing the button to start her mini recorder.

“Andy,” he said abruptly.

“Andy what?” CJ asked, realizing then that she hadn’t asked Laurie for her last name. She’d have to find out before she left.

“My last name doesn’t matter,” Andy said, his gaze jerking in every direction before sliding back to her. “I’m just here to do my duty and tell you what I know about Jefferson.”

“Okay,” CJ said easily. “Go ahead.”

“He’s a meth-head,” he announced.

CJ’s eyebrows rose and she sat back in her seat. “A meth-head?”

“Yeah. He started out just trying this and that—experimenting with pot, coke, molly, and stuff—but about ten months ago he tried crystal meth and he really liked that shit. Started hitting it hard. Now he’s full-on hooked. And he’s not a happy cranker either. But he’s worse now that his source has dried up. That’s why he’s losing it and beating the hell out of people when he used to be a pretty good cop,” the man told her grimly.

“And how do you know his source dried up?” CJ asked, but suspected she already knew the answer. The man was twitchy as a cat’s tail. To her, that screamed meth user who was in need of a fix.

“’Cause I’m his source, aren’t I?” he said dryly, and then scowled at her. “But you can’t use that against me since I’m your snitch now.”

CJ ignored that and asked, “So why aren’t you supplying him anymore?”

“Because my source dried up,” he said with a combination of misery and anger. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Goddamned Allistair, packing up and moving to the city like some—”

“Allistair?” Mac interrupted. “Not Allistair Tremblay?”

“Yeah. You know him?” their guest asked.

“He’s my landlord,” Mac said with a frown. “He’s a drug dealer?”

“Yeah, he used to cook in the basement of his farmhouse here before he— Oh, hey! You’re not that guy who was living in his house, are you?”

“Yes, I am,” Mac said slowly, his eyes narrowing briefly on the man before he sat up straight and barked, “You’re the one who set it on fire!”

“Oh, hey, man, that was an accident. Totally. I mean, it was deliberate. Allistair was supposed to pay me for doing it, but you weren’t supposed to be there. See, moving to Toronto was more expensive than he expected and he said he didn’t have the money to pay me what he owed me, but if I set the house on fire, he’d get the insurance and pay me back.”

“He what?” Mac demanded with disbelief.

“Yeah, but see, then you rented the place, and he didn’t remember about me burning it down. And then I set the house on fire and heard the next day that some guy was living there who nearly bought it in the fire and I called him up. I was like, ‘What the hell, Allistair? You nearly made me a murderer, bro.’ And he was all like, ‘What the hell are you talking about, Skunk?’” He