But I wasn't going in without my silverstone knives. One up either sleeve, two tucked in my boots, and another hidden against the small of my back. My usual five-point arsenal. And Jo-Jo was right. I had my Ice and Stone magic to tap into, if things got really desperate.
But that wouldn't happen. Because I was smarter than that. Stronger. And Donovan Caine wasn't the lecherous, ra**st bastard his dead partner had been.
I stared out the tinted windows at the Cake Walk. An enormous chocolate cake topped with chipped whipped cream and a faded cherry covered most of the front window. People relaxed at small tables inside. It was almost one o'clock, and a steady stream of folks entered and exited the restaurant, as though eating lunch on an assembly line.
Finn and I had been sitting in the same spot for the last hour. Finn kept his eye on the flirty coeds who sashayed in and out of the diner, while I watched for Donovan Caine.
"Where do you think Caine is? It's almost one. He should have been here by now." Finn shrugged. "My source said he was usually in the restaurant by twelve thirty. Most of his credit card receipts have him leaving around one fifteen, one thirty. Maybe he caught a case."
I'd just turned back to the window when I spotted Caine rounding the corner. He strolled down the street, once again moving with that loose, easy confidence I found so attractive. He wore a wrinkled blue suit and a white shirt that made his skin gleam like polished bronze. A silver striped tie hung loose around his neck. Caine's black hair was rumpled, as though he'd been running his fingers through it in frustration, and his face was set into a scowl. I could see the hard glint of his hazel eyes even from this distance. The detective reminded me of a Hispanic Dirty Harry, ready to plug anybody who got in his way. Somebody hadn't had a good morning. I wondered if it was because he'd been told to back off the Gordon Giles murder.
Caine yanked open the door to the Cake Walk and stepped inside. I stayed where I was, watching the flow of people and cars. About thirty seconds after Caine entered the restaurant, two guys wearing dark suits appeared at the end of the block.
They had the corporate look down pat and blended in well with the crush of businessmen, except for a couple things. First of all, they weren't in a hurry to get back to the office like everyone else was. Second, their faces were harder, colder than those of the corporate raiders around them. Third and most telling, they held their arms slightly out to their sides in a manner that suggested each one had a gun stuffed inside his suit jacket. Maybe two.
One of them bought a newspaper from a vendor on the corner, while the other lit a cigarette. "The good detective's got a tail," Finn said.
"I expected as much," I murmured. "The question is does he know about it or not?
Are they part of the Air elemental's team? Are they cops?"
"Definitely not cops," Finn said. "Even the dirtiest detectives know better than to sport five-thousand-dollar suits. Those guys are wearing the latest designs from Fiona Fine's fall menswear collection."
I shook my head. "You and your clothes. Worse than a woman. The next thing I know, you'll be talking about wingtips."
"Nah," Finn said. "It's all about the suit. Nobody ever looks at a man's shoes." I stared at the two men. One man seemed content to read his newspaper while Caine ate lunch. The smoker was more adventurous. He wandered over to three women leaning against the building, sipping iced mochas and eyeing all the businessmen who walked by. Coeds, from the looks of their tight shirts, glittering belly button rings, and backpacks. On the prowl for their Mrs. degrees. The man struck up a conversation with the girls, then pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it to one of them. Hmm. That could be useful.
"Keep an eye on those girls. Make sure they don't wander away while I'm inside."
"Gladly," Finn replied.
I waited a few more minutes, but Caine's watchers made no move toward the restaurant, except to glance up whenever anyone stepped inside. I didn't like the fact someone was watching Caine, but this was the best chance I had to get close to the detective. To find out why he'd been so interested in Gordon Giles and what Giles had really been up to. I had to risk it. And if I had to lullaby the two men following the detective, well, I'd be more pissed about getting blood on my T-shirt than dropping their bodies on the pavement.
"All right," I said. "I'm going in. If I'm not back in twenty minutes-"
"I'm supposed to leave you behind," Finn finished. "I know the drill, Gin. I was doing this for my dad long before you were around."
The mention of Fletcher cast a dark shadow in the car. Finn's face tightened, and he turned away. Even through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, I could tell he was blinking back tears. The same sort of sadness filled me, although I'd cried all my tears the other night in the shower.
But the thought of my murdered mentor motivated me to get on with this. Finding out who set us up and why was the only way I could keep Finn safe-and make sure Fletcher hadn't died for nothing.
I reached over and squeezed Finn's hand. He didn't look at me, but his fingers tightened on mine. "Wish me luck," I whispered and got out of the car.
I walked at an angle toward the front of the restaurant, as though I were coming in from the grassy quad of the community college several hundred feet away. I put my right hand next to my hip and palmed one of my knives so that the tip barely protruded out of the sleeve of my jacket. My thumb caressed the hilt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the guy with the newspaper peering over the top of it at me. But he didn't recognize me from my poor police sketch because he didn't move in my direction, gesture to his buddy, or whip out a cell phone and call for backup. Still, I added a flirty shimmy to my long stride to give him something else to focus on besides my face.
I waited for a couple of guys carrying briefcases to move away from the front door and stepped inside the Cake Walk. The restaurant was dark and cool after the heat of the midday sun, and I slowed, letting my eyes adjust to the dimmer light. My fingers brushed against the wall by the door, and I listened to the stone's vibrations. Loud, cheery, and brassy, just like the bellows of the restaurant's workers as they shouted orders to each other. The only thing to be concerned about in here was how many calories the triple chocolate cake had-and how fast they'd go straight to your ass.
A counter, not unlike the one at the Pork Pit, ran along the back wall. Behind the glass partition, workers made chicken salad sandwiches on sourdough bread, ladled up bowls of potato soup, and cut slices of bright blackberry pies and moist, golden Mountain Dew cakes. The smell of sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg flavored the air, and I could almost feel the grease on the walls. The red booths, metal tables, and iron chairs were clean, but faded and shiny from wear.