The Devil's Own Game by Annie Hogsett

Author:Annie Hogsett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2019-08-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-One

“No way, Lisa, I need to hang up on you.”

“Don’t. Please. You were watching 16 last night.”

“I was. Watching you smearing Tom’s name all over TV-Land.”

“Allie. Wait. It wasn’t—I got put on administrative leave.”

“Lisa.” I turned her name into liquid sarcasm. “Why on earth? I thought you were doing a regular bang-up job last night. Channel 16-style.”

She was quiet for minute. “I probably have that coming, but Allie. What did you hear me say last night?”

“That the message left at the museum was for MondoMegaJackpot Millionaire Tom Bennington III.” I admired my snarl.

“I didn’t say that Allie. Remember again.”

“I don’t—” On second thought. What I remembered was Lisa’s deer in the headlight expression. Her hair whipping at her face. The cut back to the anchor.

“He said it.” I rearranged the sequence of my memory. “The dumb ass on the desk. You didn’t?”

“Because I couldn’t. He read that on my face. Even if you didn’t.”

“Is that why—?”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m on everybody’s list at 16 right now. Why I don’t care very much, either. Look, Allie. Let’s not do this on the phone. Can we meet somewhere?”

“When?”

“Six-ish?”

“Where?”

“Flying Fig?”

“Works. Otis will drive. We’ll have guys following too.”

“Good.”

* * *

Lisa Cole and I faced each other across a couple of Manhattans in a booth in the bar of The Flying Fig. Except for a murmur of conversation from the main room, the place was quiet. Otis had selected the booth because (a) it had a high back to hide us from the front windows; (b) the door was marked “Please use other door,” which stopped traffic coming in but didn’t stop a few folks from trying; and (c) he could sit reasonably close without unnerving other patrons by looking like a bodyguard. Or inhibiting Lisa and me by eavesdropping.

He’d situated himself midway down the long bar and was pretending to enjoy his N.A. beer. I saw the face he made after each sip. A couple of extra guys, hired special for the occasion, were parked out front. I felt like Taylor Swift hiding from my fans. I bet no one would realize I was her tonight.

I’d left Tom home, lying on our couch, eyes shut, listening to the “Chet Baker Sings” album, from 1956. The man had eclectic tastes. Jazz. Classical. Indie. I hoped he was thinking about me, maybe worrying about me—not much, but enough to fuel some plans for another high school reunion tonight. Euphemism.

Lisa Cole gave me what a classic noir detective might describe as “the fisheye” over her Manhattan. The Manhattan was a warm, friendly brown. Lisa was wary, with a splash of offended. I reminded myself I was dealing with a skilled reporter. Lately she’d been a happy ex-officio member of the T&A. Now she was on administrative leave from the T&A. Also from 16. Which put a different light on things. Setting aside her noisy visit to the crime scene Wednesday night—we hadn’t spoken since I hung up on her in Gallery 241-B. We had a lot to discuss.

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