Free Slaughter by John Lutz Page B

to smile. He liked it when his detectives squabbled. Oysters and pearls.

16
    W hen she studied him through the peephole and then opened her door to his knock, he hardly looked like a threat. A jockey-size man in built-up shoes to make him appear taller. His dark hair was long on the sides and combed back in wings that obviously existed to cover his ears. For all of that he was somehow physically appealing. There was a force about him. A certainty that drew a particular sort of woman.
    Men like this, Margaret thought. They somehow know about women like me.
    â€œYou’re the man who’s been following me,” she said.
    He smiled. “You’re the woman who’s been observing me following. You’ve got a lot of nerve, buzzing me in and answering my knock.”
    â€œYou took a chance coming here, yourself. For all you know, I might have considered you a rapist or burglar and shot you on the spot. I’ve done it before.”
    Some of this happened to be true, but the burglar had been her ex-husband, and she’d stabbed him in the shoulder, not shot him. None of that mattered now. They’d stitched him up, and he was fine. And she’d gotten a restraining order against him.
    â€œI was sure you wouldn’t think of me as dangerous,” he said.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause I’m not dangerous in any way. I’m sure you can read that in me.” He smiled. “You’re a good reader of men.”
    â€œHow would you know?”
    â€œI’m a good reader of women.”
    â€œNow you’re bullshitting, flattering yourself. That’s an ugly thing in a man.”
    â€œIf that’s true, how come you’re going to invite me in?”
    â€œMaybe I like absurdly determined men.”
    â€œYou like men who sense right off how you are.”
    â€œOh? How am I?”
    â€œA good person, but always up for adventure.”
    Margaret leaned against the doorframe and looked at him for a long time. She had to look down at an angle, but that didn’t seem to bother him. The little bastard didn’t blink.
    â€œYou’ve got me pegged,” she said, realizing too late the sexual connotation.
    He pretended not to notice, which helped to keep her in his corner. A real gentleman.
    â€œIf you ask me,” he said, “the world needs more like you.”
    â€œIt has more like me.”
    â€œBut they’re rare and hard to find.”
    â€œYou mean we’re rare and hard to find.”
    He turned that over in his mind. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
    â€œModesty doesn’t become you.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I hardly ever become modest.”
    â€œDo you know where the Grinder Minder is?” she asked.
    â€œThe coffee shop, yeah. Two blocks over. A pleasant walk.”
    â€œI’m not crazy enough to invite you in,” she said, “but let’s take that walk. We can see through the lies, get to know each other better over coffee.”
    â€œLearn what makes us tick,” he said, smiling. It was an unexpectedly beatific smile that made him, for an instant, look like a mischievous child.
    â€œSounds like us,” she said. She told him to wait a second while she got her purse.
    Â 
    Â 
    They were one of only two couples in the Grinder Minder. The other couple was older, he with a scraggly gray beard and a bald head, she wearing faded jeans and a colorful tie-dyed T-shirt. There were winding tattoos on the woman’s inner wrists and up her forearms to the elbows, probably to disguise needle marks. Or maybe razor scars.
    Margaret ordered a venti vanilla latte, and, amazingly, that was what he always drank. Most of the time, anyway. The killer watched Margaret’s gaze stay fixed for a few seconds on the other couple.
    â€œHippies lost in time,” he said.
    Margaret shrugged. “As long as they’re happy.”
    â€œBig job,” he said, “not trusting anyone over thirty when