Mistress

Chapter 68

I see Sean Patrick Riley seated near the window of the café before he sees me. It’s not hard to spot a guy wearing a leprechaun suit and eating Lucky Charms.

Okay, he’s more like a middle-aged guy with a full head of reddish-blond hair, a weathered complexion, and a drinker’s nose, wearing a button-down oxford-cloth shirt and blue jeans. And no Lucky Charms, as magically delicious as they may be; this afternoon it’s a cup of joe.

Yeah, I’m still in a pretty good mood from the sex last night.

We shake hands. “Nice bike,” he says.

Okay, there goes my good mood. Normally, that would be a compliment, because normally he’d be talking about my Triumph, which is a nice bike. But the Triumph is in a parking garage in the Adams Morgan neighborhood. Now I’m riding a real bike-a bicycle-specifically, a used Rockhopper I picked up at City Bikes. It’s more suited to trails than city riding, but I may have to make some acrobatic moves with it one day, and I want something that can handle some quick turns and rough riding.

Anyway, I’m not too happy about it. I already miss my motorcycle. But the Triumph made me visible. With the Rockhopper, plus a helmet and a fluorescent Windbreaker, I look like one of those bike couriers who risk life and limb weaving through traffic all around the capital.

“You’re the Ben Casper who runs that newspaper?” he asks.

“I am.” Checking out my appearance, he probably thinks I’m a guy who delivers newspapers. “And I’m short on time,” I say.

He doesn’t respond to that. I’m guessing this guy used to be a cop, and judging from his speech patterns, I’m guessing Chicago cop. Last I checked, they have a few Irish people out that way.

They put one of yours in the hospital, you put one of theirs in the morgue! Sean Connery may be Scottish, but he killed as the Irish cop in The Untouchables. Killed.

“I was hired by the Jacobs family,” he says. “They live in a suburb of Chicago. Their daughter Nina went missing here over a week ago.”

Nina…Jacobs. I know that-

“Diana’s friend,” I spit out. I met Nina once at a club. She was tall, like Diana, the same lithe, shapely frame, but not blond like Diana. Nina was a brun-

Oh, shit. Nina was a brunette.

And I’ll bet she didn’t have a butterfly tattoo above her left ankle.

“Diana…Hotchkiss, you mean,” Riley says, flipping over a pad of paper.

I take a breath and recall Nina. A beauty in her own right-not the perfect features of Diana’s face, but quite attractive. A bit younger than Diana. Up close, you wouldn’t confuse one for the other, but from a distance, they might be indistinguishable. Especially if Nina was wearing Diana’s clothes.

And especially if Diana dyed her hair Nina’s color, which she did a month ago.

I remember that night at the club, and thinking that Nina looked up to Diana, patterned herself after her. How ironic, in hindsight.

Sean Patrick Riley is looking for a dead woman.

“I’m down to remote acquaintances at this point,” says Riley. “I’ve talked to everyone she knows well, and I’m hitting a dead end. Anyway, she had your business card in her Rolodex. So I’m wondering if you can think of anything that might help me. Any chance you have an idea what might have happened to her?”

Her parents must be in sheer agony right now. I’ll help them find justice for their daughter. I won’t let this go. I’ll tell them everything that happened to their daughter.

But not yet.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve put together so far?” I say. “And maybe something will trigger a thought.”