Lissa’s now peering at him over her sunglasses. With a grin and a finger fluttering between me and Grant, she asks, “Are you two …?”
It takes me a second to register her meaning, and I respond with a little more vehemence than is probably necessary or fair to Grant. “Oh, God, no. Also, wejustmet.” I look back toward Grant, and startle a bit when our eyes connect. He holds my gaze just a moment too long before returning to his task, making me wonder if he overheard.
Lissa shrugs. “I’ve gone from strangers to fiancés to exes in less time. Granted, that was just twice in Ibiza.” She downs the rest of her water.
We’re interrupted by a loudbangfrom the house, followed by a chorus of “Dickhead, dickhead, dickhead.”
Out storms Lesley—although his version of storming is really just a stompier version of his usual swagger. But his posture is tense, his hand strangling a newspaper. Stopping in the center of the patio, he puts on his reading glasses, snaps the paper open, and reads, “‘Man Found Dead Identified As’”—his mouth twists with disgust—“‘Rickshaw Ripper.’”
Grant has stopped his practice, and all three of us listen toLesley in stricken silence. It’s him, the killer who slipped through our fingers not twenty-four hours ago—in pieces in a dumpster, with a different cheeky little nickname. Lesley frowns as he reads about the discovery and how DNA testing tied him to the pedicab murders.
“DNA testing?” Grant the Skeptic chimes in. “Wouldn’t that take longer? And it’s in the paperalready?”
“Take it up with Anna,” I mutter.
It starts to click: Grant and I aren’t the only ones who failed yesterday. The Pulverizer also failed, and nowhe’sbeen murdered. Punishment, perhaps, for an assignment gone wrong? A chill passes through me like a ghost as I realize how close we must have been to Mr. Page.
But this doesn’t seem to be at the forefront of Lesley’s concern. He speaks with particular contempt as he reads about the person who IDed the body: Detective Inspector Walter Akinyemi.
Lesley crumples the paper and goes to punt it with a blue crocodile Chelsea boot but misses completely.
Lissa shakes her head. “Of course it had to be Wally,” she says with deep sympathy.
“And theRickshaw Ripper? He’s thePedicab Pulverizer,” gripes Lesley. “There’s already been a Ripper, or haven’t they heard?”
“Who’s Wally?” Grant asks.
Lesley and Lissa answer simultaneously.
“My nemesis.” “His nemesis.”
A snort of amusement escapes me, earning frowns from the two of them.
“Sorry,” I say. “I forgot that people have actual nemeses in this …” Genre. “Business.”
Lesley lets out a humorless laugh. “Just wait till you collect a few.”
He summarizes his acquaintance with Wally succinctly, somuch so that I suspect there’s a lot he’s leaving out. They cooperated, once upon a time. There was an incident. Wally blamed Lesley, they turned against each other, and they’ve been locked in a cold war of crime-solving one-upmanship ever since—the official police detective versus the freewheeling off-the-books sleuth.
“Bottom line,” says Lesley, “he got one. We’ll get the rest of these scoundrels, or my name isn’t Lesley Michael Burns and also sometimes Banksy.”
“You are not Banksy,” Grant says.
“Speaking of scoundrels,” says Lissa, nudging Lesley, “I believe you have some good news to share?”
Lesley’s demeanor shifts from nonchalant angst to nonchalant satisfaction.
“Right. That.” He fixes us with an all too familiar grin, which produces a beleaguered sigh from Grant. “Ready your fishing lines, my friends. We’ve got a live one.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Looking at Grant, all I can think is that I have never seen anyone roast a marshmallow so blatantly against their will.
So we’re not camping, exactly. But when life gives you a countdown to attempted murder and a back-alley trash can fire, you might as well make s’mores.
Tonight’s diabolical menace is known (to Lesley) as the Tent City Terror, thanks to his charming habit of burning down encampments while their residents are sleeping. Right around two a.m., he’ll approach this alley to find that its usual inhabitants have been mysteriously housed elsewhere, and the only ones left to kill are waiting to kick his ass.
For now, we’re leisurely hanging by the fire with the goal of appearing like we totally live here and totally don’t expect an attack, just in case he’s watching. And if I could block out the city sounds, the cold concrete, and the knowledge that someone nearby wants us dead, I could almost enjoy this as much as any camping trip.
