Rapture (Fallen Angels #4)(19)
Author: J.R. Ward

As he consumed his meal, the sunglasses his reporter had given him were a godsend, allowing him to keep track of the people coming and going, and the waitresses moving around, and who went into the bathrooms and how long they stayed.

Except surveillance hadn’t been why Mels had given them to him.

Damn it. What was it about that woman that made him want to be whole again?

“More coffee?” the waitress asked at his elbow.

“Yeah, please.” He pushed his cup over and she poured from the pot, steam curling up. “And another round of everything else, too.”

She smiled like she was calculating a bigger tip. “You’re a good eater.”

When you don’t know the when/where of your next meal, you better be, he answered in his head.

His reporter came in just after he’d finished breakfast number two. She looked left and then right; when she saw him sitting all the way down by the emergency exit, she started the long trek past a number of empty booths.

As she sat across from him, her cheeks were red, like she’d rushed. “It must have been crowded when you came in.”

“It was.” Bullshit—he’d wanted to be near the back in case he needed to get out in a hurry.

The waitress came over with the pot again. “Good to see ya—coffee?”

“Yes, please.” Mels shrugged off her coat. “And my usual.”

“Lunch or breakfast?”

“Lunch.”

“Comin’ up.”

“You eat here a lot?” he said, wondering why he cared.

“Two, three times a week since I started at the paper.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“A million years.”

“Funny, you don’t look like a dinosaur.”

Smiling a little, she took a pull off her coffee cup and got ready for business, her mouth thinning, her lids lowering.

Man…she looked hot like that. The intensity. The focus. In this moment, she reminded him of himself—

And wasn’t that a miracle, given that he had about as much information on the both of them—and she was a stranger.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

“You’re dead.”

“And here I just thought I felt that way.”

During the pause that followed, he could sense her trying to read him. “You’re not surprised,” she said.

He looked into his half-empty cup and shook his head. “I knew there was something wrong at that house.”

“The man who had that name for real was eighty-seven and died of congestive heart failure five weeks ago.”

“As false identities go, it’s not a very good one, is it.”

“You talk like you know about them firsthand.” When he didn’t comment, she leaned in. “Is there any chance you’re in the federal witness protection program?”

No, he was on the other side of the law…whatever that meant.

“If that’s the case,” he said, “they’re not taking very good care of me.”

“I have an idea. Let’s go back to the cemetery—right where the accident occurred. See if it brings anything to your mind.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t. I offered—” She stopped. Frowned. Rubbed at her eyebrow. “God, I hope I’m not turning into my mother.”

“Does she like cemeteries?”

“No, long story. Anyway, I borrowed my friend’s car—I can drive you over there after we’re done eating.”

“No. Thanks, though.”

“Why’d you bother to ask about your name if you’re not going to keep digging?”

“I can take a cab, is what I mean.”

“Oh.”

The waitress showed up with “the usual,” which turned out to be a chicken salad on wheat with what appeared to be extra tomatoes, and fries instead of chips.

“I think I should take you,” she said, reaching for the ketchup.

Matthias watched as two cops came in through the front door and sat at the counter. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Please.”

He dipped his chin and stared at her over the tops of the Ray-Bans. “I don’t want you to be alone with me. It’s too dangerous.”

She paused with a French fry halfway to her mouth. “No offense. But considering your physical condition, I could break both your legs and have you unconscious in a New York minute.” As his brows shot sky-high, she nodded. “I’m a black belt, licensed to carry a concealed hand gun, and I never go anywhere without a good knife or my heat.”

She gave a quick smile, picked up her chicken salad, and bit into her usual. “So, what do you say?”

10

Fortunately, this wasn’t a date, Mels thought as things went quiet. Because telling a man you could wipe the floor with him was not a good beginning, middle, or end to a meal.

This was business—yeah, sure, this man’s story, whatever it was, wasn’t likely to end up in the pages of a newspaper, but it was something to solve, and God knew she never passed that kind of opportunity up.

“Quite a résumé,” he said after a long moment.

“My father made sure I could defend myself. He was a cop, one of the real old-school types.”

“What’s that mean?”

She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, took another hit of her coffee, and wished she’d ordered a Coke. “Put it this way…Now, in the days of video cameras in squad cars, and internal affairs boards, and binders full of procedurals, he wouldn’t have lasted a month before he got suspended. But back in the day, he got the job done, and people were safer in this town because of him. He took care of things.”

“Rough guy?”

“Fair guy.”

“And you approve of his methods?”

She shrugged. “I approved of him. His way of operating, on the other hand…let’s just say it was for a different era. Before DNA and the Internet.”

“Sounds like my kind of man.”

Mels had to smile at that. Except then sadness at her father’s loss made her look out at the river, and the seagulls which coasted over the sluggish current. “He was never out of control or mean. But sometimes, the criminal element only responds when things are explained in their language.”

“You have any brothers or sisters?”

“Just me. And Dad didn’t care that I was a girl. He treated me as he would have a son, trained me, taught me self-defense, insisted I learn about firearms.” She laughed. “My mother nearly had a heart attack. Still does.”