I wondered just how badly I was slipping not to have noticed a tail.
“Why?” I asked. “Why are you following me?”
“You’re stirring a hornet’s nest,” Faduma replied. “That makes you interesting.”
“For a story?” I countered. “I know who you are.”
She smiled. “It took you longer than I thought it would. Maybe your reputation isn’t justified? Or perhaps you’re losing your touch. The passing years haven’t been easy for you, have they?”
I had no idea whether she was trying to goad me or if she was just upset I’d discovered her identity, but either way I didn’t rise to the bait.
“I think you know a lot more about what’s going on here,” I said. “If you’ve got information, you should share it, but if you’re mixed up in whatever this is, you need to know I will hold you to account.”
“I’m not mixed up in this,” Faduma assured me. “And I want to believe you’re a good man. I want to trust you, but you keep doing questionable things, like letting a corrupt cop leave a crime scene.”
“What makes you think she’s corrupt?” I asked.
Faduma smiled again. “You need to do more digging, Mr. Morgan. Find out who your new partner really is.”
“She’s not my partner.”
“Your associate, then.”
“Why don’t you just tell me?” I asked.
“Like I said, I want to believe I can trust you,” Faduma replied, getting to her feet. “Call it a test.”
She walked away as the waiter came over with my iced water and her orange juice.
“I’ll take them both,” I told him. “It’s been a hot day.”
“Shall I charge them to your room, sir?” he asked, arranging the drinks on the table in front of me.
“Yes, please,” I replied, watching the journalist leave the bar, wondering just how much she knew and what exactly I’d have to do to get her to trust me.
CHAPTER19
AFTER I’D HAD a revitalizing and refreshing shower and changed into jeans and a black T-shirt, I ordered some pesto linguine from the hotel bistro and ate in the small dining area in my suite during a video call with Justine, Sci and Mo-bot, who were in the conference room in Private’s LA headquarters.
“That looks good,” Mo-bot remarked, nodding in my direction as I took another forkful.
I’d opted for a simple meal, but the Hassler bistro was known for making the simple magnificent. The sauce was rich and flavorsome and the linguine perfectly cooked.
“It is good,” I replied. “I’ll bring some back.”
Mo-bot scoffed.
“So, we’ve got a prosecutor dead in a murder made to look like an accident?” Sci observed. Seymour “Sci” Kloppenberg was the embodiment of an aging biker, but he was also one of theworld’s leading experts in forensic analysis and had examined the photos I’d taken of the hillside road where Lombardi had died.
“And the cop investigating the death, our new colleague Matteo, tells his partner to back off the case,” Justine remarked.
I nodded. “Looks that way.”
“He is then found holding a smoking gun, standing over the body of the priest he claims told him to back off the investigation, and his ex-partner goes into hiding while a reporter stakes you out,” Mo-bot added. “And when you check out the scene of the earlier crime, some guy tries to punch holes in you with a machine gun.”
“You take a look at the guy yet?” I asked, referring to the dead assassin.
“Yeah,” Mo-bot replied. “The ink reeks of organized crime, but there’s a bunch of other stuff there. Religious symbolism. I don’t recognize any of the designs, but I’m running analysis against image libraries.”
