“Why not?It’s the perfect opportunity.We’re in the moment.”
She pulled the covers over her head.“Too tired.”
Unfortunately, exhaustion wasn’t a valid excuse to avoid due diligence.
“You need to inspect the room to make sure there are no bugs.”
With a screech, she hopped out of the bed.She curled one of her legs up and wrapped her arms around herself in a tight hug.“Like roaches?”
He chuckled and pinched the bridge of his nose.“No.I’ve stayed here before.This place is actually clean.What I meant was, you want to make sure no one is listening.”
She furrowed her brow as she relaxed her stance.“Who would do that?”
He gave her an incredulous look.
“What?”
“It’s safer to behave as though you’re being watched so that on the off chance someone has figured out that you’re a murderer, you’re one step ahead of them.”
Her features morphed into an inquisitive expression.“Have you ever been caught?”
Shaking his head, he fluffed the curtains.“No.”
“Never?”
“Not once.”He’d been doing this sort of work for close to a decade, yet he’d never been handcuffed or put behind bars.“Questioned occasionally.”
He moved through the room, opening drawers, flipping through the ironic Bible, and opening the backs of the remotes.He could feel her eyes on him as he inspected everything.
“Nothing came of it.Called a lawyer a few times.”
“Did you tell him?”she asked.
She didn’t have to explain what she meant.He understood what she was asking.Was his lawyer aware that Fink was a killer?“She,” he corrected, “never asked.”
“How did you find her?”
Logical question.One he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer.Some details weren’t entirely his to share.AJ, his handler, did a lot to ensure Fink could remain in business.Granted, that enterprise was completely advantageous for AJ.Lucrative, too, but his involvement wasn’t something she needed to know.
He settled for vague but honest.“I am connected.”
“To the mob?”she asked, grinning as she returned to the bed.
Lying on her stomach, she rested her chin in her hands and kicked her feet up behind her.The sparkle in her eye made him snicker.
“I’m not Italian,” he hedged.
“There are others.”
He nodded as he used the flashlight of his burner phone and ran it along the mirror, the television, and the lamps, checking for tiny cameras.The probability of anyone knowing he’d be there was minimal at best, but he was better safe than sorry.
“What are you?”she asked.
“Your murder buddy,” he responded playfully.
A pillow bounced off his shoulder blades.“That’s not what I meant.If you’re not Italian, what are you?”
“Mostly Irish,” he hummed, continuing through the room.“A little Scottish, too.”
