Free Bed of Bones (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Five) by Cheryl Bradshaw Page B

pivoted and walked away.
    I sagged against the wall, catching my breath. I’d been with Daniela only two hours before. Giovanni wasn’t there and I hadn’t heard from him. I wondered…had Carlo or Daniela? Was I the only one left in the dark?

CHAPTER 16
    Ronnie unbolted the door to his fancy hotel room, cracked it open, and poked his head into the hallway, looking both ways before waving me in. Although it was evening, the sun had finally dodged the clouds long enough to brighten up the remainder of the day. Ronnie’s curtains, however, were drawn.
    In a pair of khaki slacks and a tucked-in, blue-and-white striped Polo shirt, Ronnie easily had ten or more years on Brynn. His heavily hair-sprayed, brown hair looked like someone had placed a bowl on his head and cut all the way around the edges. Every strand was perfectly placed, making me wonder if it was actually a cheap rug he’d purchased from the five-and-dime. I resisted the urge to tug on it and find out.
    “Is…everything okay?” I asked.
    He leaned against the counter, tried to appear debonair.
    “Why wouldn’t it be?”
    “Are you nervous?”
    He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m fine.”
    “You’re shaking.”
    “No, I’m not.”
    I suppose watching his arms spasm right in front of me was an optical illusion. The heater kicked off with a bang. A startled Ronnie shot into the air.
    I dismissed it, sat at the table, crossed one leg over the other. “You seem a little on edge. Want to tell me what’s going on?”
    His nostrils expanded. “Nothing.”
    “What row were you sitting in when the film started?”
    “You’re here for a purse. Why do you want to know?”
    “What row?” I repeated.
    “The first. Right next to Terry.”
    Interesting.
    “I don’t see any injuries,” I said. “The people sitting in the first couple rows suffered the worst, and yet you don’t have a scratch on you. Why?”
    He walked over to the bed and bent down, hoisting a blue leather handbag off the ground. It had fringed tassels on both sides and a white skull on the front. I liked it.
    “Here,” he said, dangling the bag in front of me. “Take it.”
    What he meant to say was: take it and go.
    The bag slipped off his fingers, plopping down on the table.
    He folded his arms and waited, his forehead creasing when I didn’t rise.
    “You got what you came for; you can go now,” he insisted.
    “You didn’t answer my question.”
    “Maybe I don’t want to.”
    I leaned back in the chair. It was firm and uncomfortable against my bony posterior, but I wanted him to think I was relaxed enough to stay all day. “Maybe I don’t want to leave.”
    He made a huffing sound.
    I smiled.
    “Are you always so pushy?”
    “When I need to be—yes,” I stated.
    He sat down. “I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten all day.”
    I hoped the conversation about his food cravings would lead somewhere productive.
    “ Okaaayyy .”
    “I saw a couple lights on inside a fast food joint across the street, so I walked over. I figured I had enough time to place an order and get back in time for the movie. When I got there, the doors were closed, locked.”
    “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
    “You asked why I don’t have any injuries.”
    “Were you in the theater when the bombs went off or weren’t you?”
    “I don’t feel comfortable talking about this—I don’t even know who you are.”
    I leaned forward, extended my hand. “Sloane Monroe. I’m a private investigator. Now, did you see something?”
    He scratched behind his ear.
    He had.
    “Ronnie. Look at me. What…did…you…see?”
    “Nothing!”
    “You’re lying,” I said.
    A phone jingled nearby. His body quivered. He looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and hide.
    “Are you going to answer it?” I asked.
    “What?”
    “The phone.”
    “It can wait. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
    He pressed his hands together, briskly rubbing them back and forth like he was trying to start a fire