“The coffee without the stick is yours,” he said. “And dress a little less conspicuously. My student spotted you immediately as someone who didn’t quite belong.”
“Exactly. And if you ask him in thirty minutes to describe me, he’ll say I had short hair and dark features or looked like someone who was a witch or emo. He may even think I’m a young man.”
Blayne picked up his coffee and sipped.
“I don’t dress like this everywhere I go. Trust me. If I slip out of this into a brightly flowered shirt with red hair, I could walk back into the coffee shop and flirt with the clueless boy, and he’d never be the wiser. That’s the beauty of dress. Dress is like a stereotype, and that’s what people remember, the stereotype. I could go back in and shoot up the place, and all that kid would remember was ‘the emo girl who came with Blayne.’ And we both know what kind of a dead end that would be for any investigator.”
They stared at each other momentarily, neither saying a word. Blayne finally asked the most obvious question. “Why should I trust you?”
“You’re not dead. We both know you would be if I really wanted to hurt you. Besides, I’m nothing if not bluntly honest. I don’t do subterfuge very well. As my boss likes to put it, ‘You’re a beautifully blunt instrument.’”
“Tell me something only we would know,” Blayne said. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he figured the question could provide interesting answers, no matter what she said.
“Last month, at the Emerald City, you and your friends ran behind a building and thought you were safe from the firefight around you. I had you in my scope the entire time. Our job that day was to retrieve your boyfriend’s cell phone, not kill anyone. If we had wanted to take out your entire convoy, we would have. We were armed to the teeth, and your FBI escort was caught woefully unaware. How’s that for something onlywewould know?”
Blayne sat there for a second, replaying that dreadful day’s events. As much as he hated admitting it, she was right. The FBI had been caught unaware and unprepared.
“Oh, and we left once my boss put a bullet in the cell phone. Again, we had a single aim that day.”
“Why not just take out the convoy?”
“Easy. Some things are harder to cover up.”
“You covered up blowing up an airplane.”
“She told you about that?”
Fuck!It was the first time Blayne had slipped and admitted to any conversation with Dr. Hennigan. “Yes,” he said, realizing there was no reason to deny it.
The woman nodded her head. “Yes. You’d be surprised at how easy the coverup of the Peregrine flight was. We had operatives within the NTSB who replaced the black box when it was found. With that, it wasn’t hard to spin the tale of an accident. Taking out a convoy of FBI agents would have been harder to explain away. Even if we misdirected and led them toward a different target, there would be people who wouldn’t let it go—your friend, Agent Sarah Murphy, for example. She’s smart.”
“Won’t they still come after you? I mean, you attacked them?”
“Sure. They’re looking for us as we speak. And we know Agent Murphy hasn’t let it go.Butsince no one was killed at the scene, it will eventually be placed on the back burner. And if anyone gets too close, we have methods to handle such situations.”
“Blayne?” a voice called. Blayne looked to see Kira walking up the steps to the Dream Bean. “Kind of surprised to see you here. I figured you’d be at home.” Kira looked at the woman at the table before turning back to him. “With your houseguest.”
“I had to teach.”
“And who is your friend?” Kira said, eyeing the woman warily.
“I’m Caroline. I’m one of Mr. Dickenson’s English students,” the woman said in a bubbly voice that sounded nothing like the cold-blooded killer he’d just been discussing the mass murder of innocents with.
Kira glanced at Blayne sideways, almost as if asking, ‘Why are you having coffee with a student?’
“I stopped by to grab a drink on the way home, and…”—he paused for a second, trying to remember the name the woman had just used—“Caroline, here, bumped into me and asked about her paper.”
“Yep, I’m writing an essay on Emily Brontë’sWuthering Heights, or Ellis Bell’s if you use her original pen name. I’m interested in the sexist underpinnings of the use of pseudonyms by the Brontë sisters. But Mr. Dickenson said I should focus on a specific text, so I went with my favorite.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re in expert hands,” Kira said. “Wish I could talk longer, but I’m picking up a coffee before heading off to a deposition.” She turned to Blayne. “I’ll call you this evening. I have a few updates about last night.”
“Great. I should be home all evening,” Blayne said with a smile he hoped would appear genuine.
Kira turned to the woman. “It was nice to meet you, Caroline. Good luck with your paper. Blayne’s love of the Brontë sisters will serve you well on your assignment.”
“He’s already been such an immense help. His extensive knowledge on the subject has helped me focus.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Kira turned to Blayne. “I’ll call once I’m out of the deposition. I should be done around seven.”
