Page 92 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

“Edie Maureen Carson,” he reads, slowing, squinting. “Age twenty-three. Born in Hartford, Connecticut.”

“In the system. There’s a surprise.” The fact that he can get anything off her fingerprint means she’s in the system.

“She’s in the system, but she doesn’t have a record.” Orton scrolls, then stops, eyes narrowed at whatever he’s reading. “She’s a college student?”

I frown. “Edie?”

“Columbia University as of eight months ago when she was fingerprinted as a condition for campus employment. Master’s program. There’s not much more than that. I forwarded it to you.”

“A college student?”

“Knew she wasn’t right,” he mutters.

Moments with her replay in my head. The way she’d suck in a breath at the slightest touch like an innocent and untouched maiden. Her sometimes nerdy choices, so out of place. Her berry-scented lip gloss and clean soap that were so different from the perfumes I was used to.

The naive act. But it wasn’t an act.

Edie Maureen Carson. A fucking college student.

“What the fuck.” Why walk into my world that night in that red dress? Why sit down with a man like Iron Jaw Dardan, of all people? Even a sheltered virgin could take one look at his cold, dead eyes and know he was trouble.

Fuck. I drain my drink and bang the glass down.

College is expensive. Is that why she did it? For the money?

I think back to the hungry way she watched the food, how her eyes would follow each dish, how she’d unconsciously lean forward when the warm scents of rosemary bread and spiced meats wafted past. The way she cradled the stack of bills I gave her thatfirst night, eyes wide like she’d never seen so much money in her life.

“We should send someone to talk to her.” By talk, Orton means a very enthusiastic warning not to tell tales. The girl sat with us and saw our operations.

“She’s got nothing that isn’t public knowledge,” I say.

“She misrepresented herself.”

“She’s got nothing,” I grit out.

Orton holds my gaze a bit too long, then looks away. He knows when not to challenge me. He takes off soon after, but I stay to deal with a few emails. Business to handle. People to manage.

An hour later I’m searching her name in the Columbia Academic Commons. It’s a lot of student stuff—honor roll and extracurriculars. Reviews of professors—all of them very positive because Edie would be like that. She’s the girl who sits in the front. Never misses a day of class. I find three research papers she wrote and dip into one, telling myself I’m just going to see what the fuck is so important that she’s writing her papers on, but I end up reading all three of them from beginning to end. Edie is obsessed with medieval castles. The day-to-day activities of peasant women. Old languages. Bloody battles fought with swords forged in fire.

That’s how she knew Arianiti’s eagle.

A college student.

I was right to send her away. Best call of the week.

Two days later, I’m strolling onto the bustling Columbia campus. My tech guy has come through with her class schedule and daily habits, not that he had to hack into much, being that the kids today put everything out there for the world to see.

I linger in a shadowy nook near a hot dog vendor off from the pathway she’ll take from art history to the library where her study group meets.

The late afternoon sun bathes the old brick buildings in a warm glow, and students mill around everywhere. Soft, young faces. Stupid ideals.

These kids have never seen a man die, never had to fight their way out of a jungle prison.

The hot dog vendor is popular, and the kids have elaborate orders involving baked beans and pickled carrots and even pineapple. One of them storms off, personally offended when they find out the guy’s out of crumbled bacon bits. A fucking tragedy in their pampered lives.

Then I spot her.

She’s wearing a fuzzy beige sweater and jeans with a light blue bucket hat, her light brown hair curled loosely around her shoulders. No trace of the seductress in the red dress. This is pure Edie—backpack slung over one shoulder, laughing with a friend as they walk. She probably has that cherry-smelling lip stuff on.

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