"No," I replied. "I don't want or need your sympathy. What I'm offering you is my help, detective."
He leaned back in the booth, studying me, trying to read my eyes and face. But I'd learned a long time ago to keep my expression as blank as a piece of slate. Say nothing, do nothing, give nothing away you didn't want or have to.
"Even if I were able to overlook the fact you murdered my partner and consider your offer, what would I get in return? Besides a knife in the back?"
I ignored his snide comment. "I have some information that might be useful in tracking down who's behind the Gordon Giles hit. It's not much, but it's a place to start. Agree to work with me, feed me any leads or theories you have, and I'll give my information to you-along with my other services. For free. A tit-for-tat situation." His eyes flicked to my br**sts again before coming back to my face. "Other services?"
"You're going to need help tracking down the people who did this-and dealing with them." Another snort. "Lady, I'm a cop. I can deal with these people on my own." My turn to scoff. "Really? Is that why Captain Stephenson did all the talking at the press conference outside the opera house? Is that why he stopped you from answering any questions? Is that why I'm being blamed for Gordon Giles's murder, even though we both know I was fishing myself out of the Aneirin River when he was killed in that fake car accident? Face it, Caine, the whole Ashland police department is as dirty as a pair of three- week-old gym socks. Present company excluded, of course."
He didn't say anything.
I drew in a breath. "I had the chance to question some folks I ran into last night.
Some of the people involved in this conspiracy. They all said the same thing. That somebody, some cop in the department, was helping them. Think about it. How quickly things happened. How fast my supposed connection to Giles was discovered, and my sketch plastered on television. And then there's you, detective. That guy outside of the box wasn't just going to pop Giles. He was going to do you, too. You have to know that. And now you know somebody in your precious police department was in on it. That he was okay with you getting dead. Somebody doesn't like you very much, detective."
Silence. Donovan Caine shifted in the booth. His index finger tapped out a pattern on the tabletop. A muscle twitched in his right cheek. He wanted to go for his gun. The desire to do it tightened his face, his whole body.
His gaze flicked to the SUV outside, and he forced himself to keep his emotions in check. To relax an inch. I'd been right. Caine wasn't the sort of cop who was okay with collateral damage. No matter how much he wanted to kill me right now.
"Do you really think these people are going to stop whatever they're doing just because I get arrested, put in jail, or killed? Not in this city. Not with Mab Monroe running things. She could be the one who wanted Gordon Giles dead in the first place, although I'll admit it's doubtful at best."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because Mab Monroe tends to deal with these sorts of situations herself. It's the only f**king thing I admire about her."
The corner of Caine's mouth lifted, and he grunted. He wasn't going to argue that point.
"Think about my offer." I cut off a sliver of my cake to keep up appearances, even though I had no intention of eating it. Too bad. The golden Mountain Dew cake looked scrumptious. "You were talking to Gordon Giles for a reason. Somebody didn't like what they thought he might say to you and what you might do with the information. That's why they killed him. Everything else is just decoration." He grimaced. "And what guarantee do I have you're telling the truth? That this all isn't some elaborate scheme to kill me?"
My lips drew back in a toothy grin. "Because if I wanted you dead, detective, I would have just stabbed you at the opera house-or I could put my knife in your throat right now."
He tightened up again.
I gave him a cool stare. "But I'm not going to do that. I want to get to the bottom of this, and you're the only person who can help me. Face it, Caine. We need each other-whether we like it or not."
My time was up. I slid out of the booth and got to my feet. "You have a few hours to think it over. If you agree to my proposal, turn your front porch light on at six o'clock tonight. I'll bring the evidence I have, and we can work out further terms. Double-cross me, and you'll end up like Gordon Giles-naked, burned to a crisp, and lying on a cold steel slab at the morgue."
"And if I don't agree? Don't want to work with you?" he asked. I shrugged. "Then don't. Just stay the hell out of my way."
"Is that a threat?"
"No," I said, backing toward the front door. "Just the way things are. Someone was very determined to kill Gordon Giles without implicating herself, and so far, she's pulled it off. In my experience, determined people have a way of succeeding. And this time, I'm the one who's determined. I'm going to find who's responsible for this, detective. You can work with me, and I'll let you have the dirty cop. Or you can wade through the blood and bodies after I'm done. Your choice."
Caine stared at me, his face unreadable. I nodded at him, then turned and walked out into the blazing sunlight.
Chapter Thirteen
Finn saw me exit the Cake Walk and eased the black SUV in my direction. I listened for the sound of the bell over the front door. Even though I'd admitted to killing his partner, Donovan Caine wasn't charging after me, gun drawn and screaming-yet.
Neither of the two men tailing him looked in my direction. The first man was deep into the sports section of the newspaper, while his buddy had stopped hitting on the coeds long enough to buy a pretzel from a vendor. I eyed the second man, committing his features to memory. A short guy, with thinning black hair, a thick neck, and a strong, stocky body. He grinned at the pretzel vendor, showing off a set of fangs. A vampire. One who wasn't very big on personal hygiene, judging from the yellow tint to his teeth.
My gaze cut to the coeds. Still slurping on their mochas. They wouldn't go anywhere for a few minutes. Good. Finn pulled the black SUV up to the curb beside me. I opened the passenger's side door and hopped inside. Finn pulled away from the sidewalk, not so fast as to make the tires squeal, but quick enough to mean business. He cut in front of a trophy wife with TBH-Tennessee big hair-in a red Lexus, and she beeped her horn in displeasure. Finn stuck his finger out the window.
"Classy," I murmured. "Very classy."
We reached the stoplight at the end of the block, and I glanced in the side mirror.
Donovan Caine stood on the sidewalk. His head swiveled around to the two men, who were busy pretending to eat and read the newspaper. He frowned, looked at our SUV, and scribbled down something on a notepad. Then Caine turned and walked in the opposite direction, probably heading back toward the police station. After about thirty seconds, his watchers followed him.