Daddy's Little Killer

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

 

The key to assessing any situation most effectively is to keep everyone involved off guard. When people's expectations aren't met, they don't read subtle signals as well. In fact, they're so off kilter, it gives me a better chance to see motives. It's basic psychology.

With that in mind, I refocused on what Rodney Martin probably remembered about me from university. I tend to favor the stereotypical look of the environment. It's part of what Wendell taught me about blending in. The chameleon survives because he can fade into oblivion. He can see danger before it arrives, Sprout. It makes him much more difficult to catch.

Today, I needed to abandon that rule. My goal was to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb, to defy every expectation Rodney might've shared with his superiors when I walked into Central Division.

A cream suit with gold jewelry set the stage for a socialite attending a brunch with her philanthropic planning committee. I looked less like a psychologist and more like an heiress. And there was certainly no trace of federal law enforcement clinging to my aura when I climbed into the tiny hybrid and engaged the GPS that would guide me to central Darkwater Bay.

The last time Rodney saw me, I was gangly, in a tweed jacket with hair in a tight bun and a pair of bookish glasses perched on the end of my nose.

Today, I could've been a Hollywood starlet on the way to a photo shoot or an awards luncheon. I clutched the tiny handbag under my arm and walked up the stone stairs to the home of central's law enforcement nexus. 

Heads turned. In part, it might've been due to the oversized sunglasses I wore and left in place after entering the building. Darkwater Bay was just as foggy in the morning as it had been when my flight landed at midnight. 

"Could you direct me to the administrative offices?" A desk officer stared up at me when I asked for assistance. I glanced at my Rolex. "I have an appointment with Commissioner Hardy this morning at eight."

"Uh. Elevator," he stammered. "Eighth floor. When you get off the elevator, George's receptionist will meet you."

I turned to leave. 

"Excuse me," the voice called after me. "Are you Dr. Eriksson?"

A smile lit up the room, designed to disarm and dazzle. "Yes. I wasn't aware that anyone knew I was coming."

"It's all anyone has talked about since that murder last night."

Ah yes. Poor dead Gwen Foster. If Lowe had been ignorant of my arrival and not behind the PIs following me, he certainly had heard I was here by now.

Rickety elevator doors jerked shut. So far, Central Division looked like it might be on the cusp of becoming a condemned building. Layers of grime had been buffed away from the spacious lobby floor but had left deep scratches in the tiles. Once white stone was stained yellow. The wood railings and information desk were chipped, the finish faded and worn.

A hand shot between the doors. "Hold the elevator!"

I pressed the "open" button on the wall panel. And almost gasped.

Perfectly pressed in dark blue Armani, a statuesque man stepped into the small deathtrap box that would deliver me to the eighth floor. Dark hair highlighted his olive skin. His cheeks dented when he flashed a white, perfectly straight smile.

"Thank you."

Blue gray eyes twinkled down at me. Another towering specimen in Darkwater Bay. This one was much less muscular than Johnny Orion, and possibly older too. Threads of gray streaked his temples.