Blood Trust - Eric van Lustbader [58]
“We don’t have even a ghost of one. We don’t even have a motive. I mean why were these people murdered? What did they know? Carson’s going to be asking us questions and we’re not going to have any answers.”
“Fuck him.”
“You say that now.” McKinsey stretched. “Fuck this, I gotta get outta here.”
Naomi realized that she was fried, too. Besides, she had another agenda to tend to. “I’m starved. Let’s go get something to eat.”
“Really? You want to hang out?”
“I want to eat.” She rose, grabbing her coat. “You coming or not?”
He got to his feet. “Sure thing. I wouldn’t miss a date with you for all the porn on the Internet.”
She smiled inwardly. She couldn’t wait to get him hammered.
They went to Marco’s, a red-sauce Italian joint straight out of The Godfather, except the food was indifferent. It did, however, have the advantage of being close to the office, not to mention cheap. Plus, it had a first-class bar.
The kitchen could have used a lesson or two from Pete Clemenza, Naomi thought sourly as they took their seats around a table with a red-and-white-checked cloth. She was something of a foodie, a frustrating trait for someone on her salary. How many restaurants had she been forced to pass by because she knew she couldn’t afford even a Caesar salad or a crudo appetizer?
They started out with whiskey shots. Then, typical of him, McKinsey opted for a cheap wine, which Naomi immediately countermanded, choosing a bottle of Chianti, which at least would not take off the roof of her mouth. When it came, McKinsey attacked it like a roast turkey, downing a third of the bottle before she had finished her second glass. They discussed the case, the fact that all three Fortress employees seemed to check out. Naomi asked him what he thought of the information in the dossiers and he shrugged, as if to say, You’ve seen one dossier, you’ve seen them all.
“I must say you’re taking this case very personally,” he said.
“And that surprises you?”
He shrugged again. “A bit. On the Ranch, you’re known as the Ice Doll.” The Ranch was the Secret Service “clubhouse,” a male-chosen name that set her teeth on edge. It only proved her male compatriots’ arrested adolescence.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s face it, Naomi, you don’t get involved—in anything.”
“Shit, Pete, I know code words when I hear them. What your young boys’ club means is that I won’t go down on any of them.”
He stared at her for a moment, then burst into laughter. “You know, you’re probably right. They ride me about that all the time, which I guess is a compliment.”
“A shit-handed compliment if I ever heard one.”
He shook his head. “I can’t figure out why you ignore the fact that you’re beautiful—and smokin’ hot.”
“That’s because you’re not a woman,” she said tartly. “You go through life thinking you’re hot, and that’s exactly how men treat you. Boobs, butt, legs, beyond that they won’t see an inch. Do you have any idea how hard I have to work to get men to take me seriously?”
“Not really,” he said dryly. “All I see when I look at you are boobs, butt, and legs.”
“Bastard,” she said, and they both laughed.
New glasses and a second bottle of wine appeared, a Lambrusco this time. The waiter poured a little into her glass to taste. She swirled it around, smelled it, then took a sip. It was fine, and she nodded her approval.
McKinsey made a face. “But, see, this is what I mean. You can be such a fucking snob.” He swigged down some of the wine. His eyes had a semiglazed look and his hair seemed unkempt. “Honestly, I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
He began to scan the menu. “Well, I could request a new partner, but no one else would have you.”
Naomi buried her face in the menu and decided not to show how deeply he had stung her.
He set aside the menu. “Besides, no one else would come up to your standards.