Loud whispers floated over from the table of ladies. “Oh, my God! What do you suppose he’s talking about?” Their faces reflected horror, and he grinned to himself. If they were going to eavesdrop, he was going to give them something to talk about. That was the price they paid for being nosy fuckers.
“So what’s the premise?” Hogan asked. “It’s not only killing the lady.”
“I can’t help it if I like killing,” Colson said, raising his voice a bit so the ladies could hear. “There’s something so soothing about it. Like squashing a bug.”
The chatter grew frenzied.
“He’s crazy.”
“What should we do?”
“We need to call the police.”
“Uh, Colson? Is there something you need to tell me?” Hogan’s anxiety had him laughing.
“You know me. I’m a ruthless fucker. And Millie is rich. Very rich. Her brownstone is full of antiques. She’s a little eccentric. Bakes cookies for everyone and wears her fabulous jewelry and Chanel suits to run her errands, that kind of thing.”
“Got it.”
“And it’s not the first time. It’s a pattern. Befriending wealthy older ladies, helping them, becoming indispensable to them.”
“So he’s a serial killer.”
A curl of excitement lit his belly. “Yeah. I haven’t done that yet.”
“Well, it all sounds absolutely gruesome and perfectly you. Can’t wait to read it.”
“Thanks.” The hottie had gotten his coffee and found a seat on the opposite side of the café from him. Still glued to his phone, he frowned. A flash of gold caught Colson’s eye, and upon further inspection of his lower extremities, he caught sight of the shield clipped to the man’s waist.
Detective, huh?
While researching, Colson had visited a few homicide divisions and spoken to many detectives. None resembled this man.
Maybe he could use him in his story. That would be a first. Normally his law enforcement personnel were older, rumpled, and grouchy. Hard-boiled and hard-living, with problems of their own that often spilled over into the investigations theyhandled. This man looked like he belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine, not poking around crime scenes. Having a hot-as-fuck detective might draw in more female readers.
The four women continued to shoot Colson terrified glances. He slipped his notebook into his bag, picked up his coffee, and walked past them.
“Have a lovely day, ladies. I hope you get home safely…and in one piece.”
They all gasped, and he laughed and walked out. A side-eye at the large glass windows showed the detective still frowning, now in his direction. He’d done nothing wrong.
He decided to pay a visit to the real-life Millie Johnson to see if she needed his help with anything. Really, he was a pussycat.
He rang her bell and heard the tapping of her heels on the hardwood floor. When she opened the door, her smile beamed. “Colson. So good to see you.”
“Millie. How many times have I told you not to open your door without asking who it is first? It’s a dangerous world out there.”
“Oh, phooey. Who’d bother an old lady like me? Come with me.” She waved him in, and he made sure to lock the door behind him. “Would you like some tea? I was thinking of baking an apple pie.”
She chattered as he followed her to the kitchen. A bag of flour, sugar, and several apples sat on a large wooden table.
“I hope you didn’t carry this all yourself, Millie.” He fixed her with a stern eye. “You know I’ll help you whenever I can.”
“You’re a dear, but I need to get out. And no. A nice young man from the supermarket delivered it.” She picked up a knife and set it down, rubbing her stiff fingers. “It’s so humid and damp out today. My arthritis is acting up.”
“Do you need me to help you?”
Her eyes brightened. “Would you mind? If you cut up the apples and measure the ingredients, I’ll be able to do it.”
