Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

But Cronin continued to look serene and unflappable. The guy’s light-blue eyes remained locked on his own, cool and steady. And he didn’t do any of those nervous things with his hands or feet or lips.

Not likely to shake a guy like this, put the fear into those eyes. Not a good idea, anyway. Not if you want to get out. Time to play nice.

“I’ll be happy to help you if I can, Detective Cronin,” he said in reply to the cop’s previous question. “Of course, given my present circumstances”-he smiled and swept his free hand to indicate his surroundings-“I doubt that I could know much that might be useful to you.”

The cop didn’t respond to the smile. Just stared at him a minute before speaking.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I checked the phone records here a few minutes ago and learned you’ve had several recent calls from the late Mr. Valenti. So I’m figuring that maybe before he got himself whacked, he might have told you if somebody threatened him. Or Bracey.” He paused. “Or you.”

Wulfe made show of looking off into space, frowning, trying to think back. “No…not really. Jay-Jay didn’t mention anything of the sort. No threats, no problems. He seemed happy, for once. He was looking for work, you know. He told me that he was trying to stay out of trouble and steer clear of anyone who might draw him back into it. So frankly, I was surprised to hear that he had been killed.”

“Surprised? Even after Bracey’s murder?”

Careful.

“Surprised and shocked. I felt right away that their deaths couldn’t be a coincidence.”

“That’s why I wonder if anybody has threatened you lately, Wulfe.”

He shook his head. “No one from outside, and no one in here.”

He thought the cop would buy the lie. In fact, from the minute he’d heard about Valenti, he remembered that Hunter guy and what he said. But Hunter was just a paper-pusher, not street muscle. Even if he had the balls to try something, Valenti would’ve had the guy for breakfast.

Still, for a few seconds, he toyed with the idea of telling the cop about the threat, anyway. Get the prick investigated, maybe kicked off the newspaper. Payback for dissing him in print, and then to his face.

But no. Much better to take care of it personally. And much more fun. Once he was out, he’d look up the guy. Show him what happens to anyone who crosses Adrian Wulfe.

He made a mental note to add him to the list. Right along with those two bitches.

“Funny, though. You look like you’re thinking of someone.”

It startled him. He liked to think of himself as inscrutable. “Oh. No…not at all. I was just remembering Jay-Jay. It’s depressing. Sure, like me, he had his share of problems. But he was sincerely trying to change.”

Cronin threw his head back and laughed at him. “Yeah, sure. Just like you.”

His wrist jerked taut against the handcuff. He was suddenly glad of the restraint. It had prevented him from hurling himself across the table and snapping the bastard’s neck.

Instead, he forced himself to smile. “I know it’s hard for you to believe me, Sergeant Cronin, but I-”

“No, Wulfe,” Cronin interrupted, rising to leave. “It’s impossible for me to believe you.”

Falls Church, Virginia

Friday, September 12, 7:35 p.m.

He parked the Forester in the driveway of the elegant two-story brick Tudor. Ivy crept up the wall, over leaded casement windows and soaring eaves. Tasteful placements of ferns, oaks, and rhododendrons graced the front yard. The style spoke of history, culture, and permanence. He smiled; it was the type of home he’d loved since childhood.

A moment after he rang the bell, she opened the door.

He knew he would be delighted. He was not prepared to be dazzled.

The crystal chandelier in the foyer outlined her in soft golden backlighting, while the lantern over the entrance cast a warm glow over her face. The light caught strands of her dark brown hair, bringing out the reddish hints. She wore a V-neck, halter-top cocktail dress, short and russet-colored, with matching heels.

“Hello?” she prompted, eyes sparkling.

He realized he’d stood staring at her for at least five seconds.

“Sorry. You’ve rendered me speechless.”

An impish smile. “And here I was hoping for scintillating conversation.”

“I’ll do better. Promise. But you do look stunning.”

Her smile broadened as she looked him up and down. “You dress up pretty nicely yourself, mister.”

She turned to fetch a gray cashmere coat from a wall hook. As she reached up, her hemline rode even higher, making his heart skip. Though she was not especially tall, her lean legs looked impossibly long, like a model’s.

“Here, let me help you.” He stepped into the foyer and took the coat from her. She turned around. Except for the strap around her neck, her dress was backless to the waist; from there it flowed snugly over the swell of her hips and halfway down her thighs. Heart now racing, he opened the coat for her. Taut little muscles moved beneath the skin of her back as she slid her bare arms into the sleeves. He caught a whiff of a light fragrance.

She turned and looked up at him. Smiled again. “Shall we go?”

He could only nod.

*

She had told him she liked Italian, so he’d made reservations at La Rosa Ristorante, an intimate place just two miles away. During the small talk on the drive over, he had to make an effort not to glance down at her half-bare thighs.

Now, seated opposite her in the black leather booth, he could study her openly in the candlelight. It was the first time he’d seen her wear makeup. But she had applied it lightly, deftly, only to highlight the wide, cat-like tilt of her eyes, the high-arching brows, the height of her cheekbones, the fullness of her lips. Her naked arms and shoulders were feminine yet toned; she was clearly athletic. Her jewelry-a necklace and bracelet, with matching earrings-consisted of semi-precious stones, alternating black and dusty gray; the latter matched the color of her eyes.

After the steward took their wine order-he was pleased that she, too, preferred full-bodied reds-he noticed that those eyes seemed to be avoiding his.

“You seem a bit preoccupied. Is anything the matter?”

She looked at him. “Okay. I did have something on my mind.”

“Let’s have it.”

“You’re a very good writer, Dylan. You must have had a successful career. Well, a woman dating a strange man can’t be too careful these days. I tried to check you out online. But I can’t find out a thing about you that goes back more than two years.”

Here it comes.

He grinned. “Oh, that. You’re not the first person who has tried to dig into the dark, sordid past of Dylan Lee Hunter. In fact, the Inquirer editor said the same thing not long ago. And there’s a reason you don’t find anything. Until the past couple of years, I wrote and published everything under pseudonyms.”

She frowned. “Why would you do that?”

“Self-defense,” he said. He put down his glass and folded his hands on the tablecloth. “Early on in my writing career, when I was working for a paper in eastern Ohio, I wrote some things that got me into deep trouble with the Mob. They were very active in some unions over there, and I exposed it.”

Her mouth was hanging open. “You took on the Mafia?”

He shrugged. “A former boss of mine once said I have a nose for trouble. And I have a hard time walking away. Especially when bad guys are doing bad things to good people.”

She stared at him. “I believe it. Okay, so what happened?”

“One day, the FBI paid a visit to the paper and told us that a regional boss had put out a contract on me. Well, being young and cocky, I didn’t mind for myself so much. But I was worried that people I cared about might get hurt if I stuck around.