They’d rented two rooms—two—at the Renaissance on State Street in downtown Albany, had a big dinner of steaks and a delicious Ripasso, and then she and Donny went their separate ways.
Hari had just finished rearranging the umpteen pillows on her king-size bed and settled back to browse the movie selections when someone knocked on her door.
“Now what?” she muttered as she padded across the room and peeked through the peephole.
Donny.
She pulled open the door and there he stood with a bucket of ice and a very large bottle of Patrón Silver.
“Room service,” he said with a grin.
If he was thinking he could ply her with tequila and join her between the sheets, he had another think coming. He didn’t know about her hollow leg. But the tequila looked good.
The room was listed as “deluxe”—hey, Art was paying—and had a little sitting area. Very soon they were relaxing with glasses of Patrón on the rocks.
“So let me ask you something,” Donny said.
Hari made a face. “Are you going to ruin this with chatter?”
“Seriously, I like to get to know the people I’m working with.”
Here we go: Let’s see if we can soften her up.
“Why?”
“I just do. So tell me: Are you a cat person or a dog person.”
“Do I look like a cat lady?”
“I said ‘person.’”
“Neither.”
“No pets?”
“Didn’t say that. I have a pet crab.”
“Can we be serious, maybe just for one minute?”
“I am serious. Her name is Pokey and she’s an Atlantic blue crab. Callinectes salpidus. Means ‘beautiful swimmer.’”
His face took on a look of wonder. “You’re serious.”
“I am. Pokey and I got off to a rocky start. I added her to my fish tank and she gobbled up a couple grand worth of tropicals I had there. I was planning on sautéing and eating her as a soft shell during her next molt but grew attached. I can’t say we’re good buddies, but we’ve achieved détente.”
His expression remained dubious as he added more Patrón to both their glasses. “Seriously? You have a pet crab?”
“I believe I’ve answered that.”
He said nothing for a few heartbeats, then, “Okay, this is where you ask me about my pets.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t care about your pets.”
Okay, that sounded harsh. She hadn’t said it to hurt him, and she might have found a gentler way to phrase it were it not for the tequila mixing with the wine from dinner—in vino veritas and all that—but no matter: It rolled right off him and he launched into a lengthy discourse on how he’d always had a dog as a kid and would have one now if his schedule would allow it, blah-blah-blah. He kept the tequila flowing while he rambled.
His eyelids were at half-mast as he concluded his doggy dissertation with a jarring non-sequitur: “The Septimus people have marked someone for death.”
“Whoa!” Hari said. “Where did that come from?”
“I was visiting a dark web chatroom last night and this guy who calls himself ‘Belgiovene’ said it looked like he was going to be doing ‘another freebee.’ I’ve been tracking this guy since February when he talked about an ‘easy-peasy freebee’ that involved pushing a guy into the Hudson and watching him go down for the third time. That’s exactly how Russ died.”
“Your brother?” Hari remembered the name from yesterday. “You think he killed your brother?”
“Sure as I can be without actually witnessing it. When someone asked him why for free, he said an organization he belongs to targets a person now and then and taps him to do the dirty work.”
“And you think that organization is Septimus?”
He shrugged. “The timing and everything else fits.”
He started to pour himself more Patrón but she stopped him.
“I think you’ve had enough. You’re already slurring.”
“You’re right. I don’t want it to affect my performance.”
“What performance?”
“You know—you and me…later.”
“Oh, you’ve definitely had too much.”
“No, just enough.”
“You do realize, don’t you, that I’m old enough that, had I been a promiscuous teenybopper, I could be your mother?”
He blinked. “You’re saying you’re fifteen years older than me—so that makes you, what, like, forty?”
“I—older than I. And yes, I’m guessing fifteen is about right.”
He gave a lopsided grin. “Well, you sure don’t look it. I’d put you at thirty, tops.”
She repressed a laugh. Yeah, right.
“Flattery will get you everywhere—almost.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. “Off to bed with you, my friend.”
He grinned. “Just what I was talking about!”
She opened her door and guided him into the hall. “I mean your bed—alone.”
“What?” He looked genuinely shocked. “You mean we’re both in this nice hotel far from home and we’re not going to hook up?”
“I commend you on your grasp of the situation.”
“Well, at least walk me back to my room.”
“I already have.” She pointed across the hall. “There’s your door.”
Now he put on a hurt face. “Seriously?”
“Don’t take it personally, I just don’t like beards.”
He rubbed his stubbled jaw. “No?”
“They chafe my thighs.”
She quickly closed the door to hide an evil grin.
Let him take that to bed.