Page 7 of Pulling Strings

The sirens were screaming now, closing in. Investigators enmasse would soon invade, taking statements, collecting evidence, and reviewing camera footage. They would have Reeves’s death pinned on me before lunch, but I would be long gone.

Panicked employees flocked around the valet counter, hoping to make a hasty exit. I didn’t understand the rush unless they feared becoming my next victims. They had nothing to worry about. I was as eager to leave this place as they were.

The valet’s attention darted from one frantic face to the next. Claim tickets wadded in his hands as he struggled to match numbers with keyrings inside the cabinet base of his podium.

The small crowd grew more aggressive, their mouths snapping like hungry piranhas ready to eat the attendant alive. As soon as I was close enough, I spotted the Porsche’s key fob hanging amongst the others. I slipped one hand into the open and turned it outward, mentally lifting my keys from their hook and calling them toward my waiting grasp.

A red-faced woman bolted forward, determined to muscle her way into the key box. She collided with the airborne Porsche fob and sent it skittering across the pavement. She didn’t even notice, too busy throwingelbows at the attendant so she could gain access to the cabinet.

I scowled, then swept my arm upward. Invisible energy rocketed ahead. It struck the podium with the force of a blow and toppled it forward.

The attendant leaped aside to avoid the onslaught as people piled in, creating a tangle to rival Black Friday madness. Bottom dollar deals on a new television or fleeing from a murderer on the loose? Priorities were an interesting thing.

As for my keys, they were separated from the herd thanks to the angry woman’s intervention. I scooped them off the sidewalk and continued, not slowing till I reached the valet lot.

Patrol cars rolled up to the curb behind me as I ducked into the parked Porsche. Once inside, I watched in the rearview mirror as investigators spilled into the street like circus clowns taking center ring. The valet desk chaos required their immediate attention, and I couldn’t help but smirk seeing the Capitol’s finest relegated to pulling civilians out of a dogpile.

I cranked the engine and turned the A/C on full blast, letting it cool my clammy cheeks. I watched, idling, until only a lone investigator remained out front, scrawling notes on a memo pad while she spoke to the valet attendant. Her powder-white hair and sunglasses made her unmistakable as Capitol darling Holland Lyle. She was the nearest thing I had to an archnemesis if you believed the media hype.

I wasn’t sure how much consideration Miss Lyle gave to me, but the only times she occupied my thoughts were when she wore something low-cut to a televised interview. Besides her physical assets, she was just another Capitol stooge, toeing the line. And, while I may have been onherhit list, she wasn’t on mine.

Maybe I was watching Holland too closely, or not watching the valet attendant closely enough, because I didn’t realize he was pointing my way. Only when they both turned, and the investigator aimed a look in my direction did awareness strike. Interrogating witnesses had to pay off occasionally. The valet knew what I looked like. Knew which car I drove. Knew where he parked that car.

Time to go.

“Hey!” The voice and ensuing jab to my shoulder stirred me from sleep.

Smells of disinfectant soap and latex permeated the air. My arm slid away from my face, allowing a view of the brown-skinned goddess standing beside me with a tattoo gun in her hand.

Isha Kapoor scowled as her dark eyes met mine. “You didn’t tell me where you want it,” she said.

I’d wasted no time. From the valet lot at the East Side Tower, it was a ten-minute drive to the Blooming Orchid, a tattoo parlor with fringe benefits for those in the know. The shop didn’t open till noon, and the Porsche’s dashboard clock read 9:30 AM when I arrived. But Isha never turned me away for business calls… or personal ones.

The padded chair was comfier than last night’s bathroom floor, making this as good a time as any to catch up on my beauty sleep. Judging by Isha’s toe-tapping impatience, she disagreed.

I flipped her my middle finger, an answer and a statement; one she understood, judging by her sigh. She sat, then rolled forward on a padded stool, situatingherself between me and a stainless tray table set up with paper towels, a pot of black ink, and a spray bottle.

The tattoo gun’s tiny motor hummed alive as Isha took my hand and pressed it flat against the chair’s armrest. My attention roamed to her breasts spilling over the neckline of her corset top. Soft black lines of flowers and skulls decorated her chest and vined down her bare arms. She looked as much the owner of this place as part of its décor.

“You’re a class act, Fitch Farrow.” Isha’s crimson lips bent in a frown. “Stumbling in here, looking like a bum, and reeking of booze…”

When the needle dug in again, I hissed a breath. My eyelids fluttered in protest of the light above. Nash’s anti-hangover potion was wearing off faster than I’d hoped.

“Tell me you didn’t work like this,” Isha continued, barely audible over the tattoo gun. “You’re a mess.”

When she lifted the needle, I took the chance to waggle my middle finger once again.

“This,” I said, sitting up straighter, “is number thirty.”

“Happy murderversary,” Isha huffed. “Now, hold still.” She bent to the task again, raven hair draping over her shoulder in waves.

The beginning of the slim, black line looked stark on my hand. I would soon have three on every digit, one for each life I’d taken in my career as a criminal. They were Isha’s idea in the first place: strings for the Marionette to pull.

“You think Grimm got me a cake?” I mused. “It’s the least he could do.”

A damp paper towel swiped across the bend of my finger like a cool kiss on burning skin. I should have been used to it, having been Isha’s doodle pad for thepast decade, but the strings hurt worse than most. Bones and tendons too near the surface prevented a comfortable experience.

“Speaking of cakes,” Isha said while the tattoo gun buzzed, “maybe you should get your brother one. It’s his birthday, isn’t it?”

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