Black Widow (8 page)

A cop—one who was pretty high up on the food chain, judging from his expensive attire and the cocky way he walked.

And he wasn't alone.

Two uniformed officers, also giants, entered the restaurant behind him, along with a short woman wearing a pale pink pantsuit and holding an official-looking clipboard.

The cop marched over and stood in front of the cash register. Behind him, I could see Madeline staring at me and smiling.

That cold worry shot out through the rest of my body, freezing me from the inside out. This was it, this was the beginning, this was the start of Madeline's plan for me, whatever it was.

The cop gave me a hard, flat stare, his brown eyes as icy as my heart felt right now.

“You Gin Blanco?” he barked out, as if he didn't already know the answer.

“The one and only,” I drawled back.

“I'm Captain Lou Dobson with the Ashland Police Department,” he said, his gravelly voice booming through the restaurant. “And you're wanted for murder.”

5

The last, loud echoes of Dobson's voice faded away, and an eerie, absolute quiet descended over the Pork Pit.

Everyone stopped what they were doing. The customers froze, their barbecue sandwiches, fries, and half-eaten onion rings clutched in their hands, while Catalina and the rest of the waitstaff hovered next to them, holding stacks of napkins and carrying pitchers of water, lemonade, and sweet iced tea. Owen hugged Eva a little closer, while Finn swiveled around on his stool to face Dobson. Silvio stopped texting, instead discreetly angling his phone and taking photos of the three cops and the woman standing with them. Sophia threw down the dish towel she'd been using to wipe off the counter and crossed her arms over her muscled chest.

But for the most part, everyone's wide eyes were focused on me, as they wondered how I would react to Dobson's accusation.

Well, really, it wasn't an accusation so much as it was the cold, hard truth. I had killed more than my share of folks over the years for a variety of reasons—money, revenge, survival. The police captain would have to be a lot more specific about whom he thought I'd murdered.

Still, I couldn't help but wonder if he was referring to Beauregard Benson. A few weeks ago, I'd gone to the vampire's Southtown mansion and bashed in his prize Bentley with one of Owen's blacksmith hammers before daring Benson himself to fight me. Our battle had ended with Benson bleeding out in the middle of the street after I'd plunged one of my knives into his rotten heart. Nothing special there, except that a group of gangbangers, vampire hookers, their pimps, homeless bums, and other folks who called Southtown home had gathered around to watch our fight. It was definitely the most public of my many crimes, but so far no one had squealed to the cops about it. But it looked like my luck had just run out on that count.

So no, this wasn't entirely unexpected, but it was still troublesome. As an assassin, as the Spider, I was used to attacking my enemies from the shadows and then slipping away into the darkness, leaving no trail behind for anyone to follow. But I hadn't done that with Benson, for many reasons, and now it seemed like it was coming back around to bite me in the ass.

I looked past Dobson at my real enemies. Emery seemed almost happy, or what I assumed passed for it with her, since her expression wasn't as dark and dour as usual. Why, that almost looked like the beginnings of a smile on her face. And Madeline was positively
beaming
,
her green eyes sparkling with obvious delight at my impending misery and ultimate doom.

I stared at her a second longer, fixing her smug smile in my mind. I was going to enjoy slapping that smirk off her face when this was all said and done. But for now, there was nothing to do but face the music—and figure out how I could get myself out of this mess.

I slid off my stool and got to my feet.

“And why would I be wanted for murder?” I asked, answering the giant's accusation, careful to keep my voice calm and neutral. “I'm just a simple business owner, trying to get by, the same as everyone else.”

Dobson smiled, revealing slightly crooked, too-white teeth. “Because you're the one who committed it, Ms. Blanco. Someone's missing, and you murdered her just as sure as I'm standing here.”

A collective gasp rippled through the Pork Pit at his words, but I kept my features blank, as though nothing were out of the ordinary and I hadn't just been accused of murder in my own gin joint. But my mind churned and churned, focusing on the most important word the captain had said—
her
. Which indicated this wasn't about Benson at all, but rather a woman. But who?

“Really?” I said. “And who says that I murdered someone?”

Dobson waved his hand. “Oh, that's not important right now. But rest assured that we have a witness to your crime.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

His cold brown eyes sharpened. “And what do you mean by that?”

I shrugged, then gave him my best, widest, most innocent and shit-eating grin. “Because nobody talks in Southtown.”

More than a few chuckles rippled through the storefront, with Finn, of course, laughing the loudest and longest. Dobson glared at the customers who had dared to be amused by my quip, and the chuckles quickly died down. Suddenly, everyone was very interested in their food again, instead of the drama unfolding at the cash register.

Dobson unbuttoned his navy suit jacket and drew back the fabric, planting his hands on his hips. More than anything else, the gesture was meant to reveal the gun holstered to his black leather belt, a clear warning that he would shoot me at the slightest provocation, including any more mockery of him. But the motion also made his jacket sleeve ride up, revealing a platinum watch set with diamonds on his wrist. A cute little trinket. I wondered if that had been part of his payoff from Madeline for coming in here and accusing me of murder.

“Nice watch,” Finn drawled, echoing my thoughts. “Especially on a captain's salary.”

A flush swept up Dobson's thick neck, cranking up the color in his cheeks to fire-engine red. A few more titters of laughter sounded. Everyone in Ashland knew that the majority of the cops were even more crooked than the city's criminals. I looked past the giant at the two uniformed officers and the woman with the clipboard. None of them were wearing any obvious, expensive bling like their boss was, but all three of them started shifting on their feet. Guilt by association.

“I don't care for your insinuations, Ms. Blanco,” Dobson
snapped. “I work for the good people of Ashland. The ones that you've been menacing, terrorizing, and murdering for years.”

Well, he had one out of three right.

“And you haven't been doing a very good job of it, now have you?” I said, my voice deceptively sweet and light. “If I've been doing all of that for all these years, like you claim. Seems like someone's been slacking off on his job, the one that the good people of Ashland pay him to do. Apparently very well, judging from that watch on your wrist, just like my foster brother said. Who knew that being a civil servant could be
so
very rewarding?”

More snickers sounded, making Dobson's face burn even redder than before. I half expected a whistle to sound and for steam to start shooting out of his ears, like it would with a cartoon character, but of course that didn't happen. After a few seconds, Dobson reined in his temper, and some of the angry flush faded from his face, although his brown eyes iced over that much more.

“Regardless of your charming opinions, you need to come with me,” he barked. “I have a few questions to ask you down at the station.”

He gestured at the uniformed officers. The two of them, a man and a woman, exchanged an uneasy look behind Dobson's back. They didn't want to get anywhere near me, not with my reputation. Smart folks. But they were more afraid of their captain than they were of me, because he turned and gave them a pointed glare, and they finally shuffled forward, the woman reaching for the handcuffs attached to her thick, black utility belt.

“Don't bother,” I told her. “I'm not going anywhere
with you. I know my rights, and unless you have a warrant for my arrest, then I'm staying right here in my restaurant where I belong.”

“That's not an option,” Dobson growled. “You're coming with us, and that's final, Ms. Blanco.”

“Forget it,” I snapped right back at him. “Especially since you still haven't told me who I supposedly murdered.”

His lips turned up into a smile. “Why, I thought you'd never ask. Her name is Shanna Bannister.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, drew out his phone, and tapped on it. He turned the screen around so I could see the image he'd pulled up on it—a photo of the redheaded woman I'd killed in the storefront this morning.

In the image, Shanna Bannister was wearing a white shirt with black pants, and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. It was the same sort of outfit she'd had on when she attacked me, but her clothes and the stiff way she was standing reminded me of something, some sort of uniform . . .

And I suddenly realized exactly who she was—the maid I'd seen serving lemonade to Madeline, Emery, and Jonah yesterday at the Monroe mansion.

For whatever reason, the redheaded maid had come in here and tried to kill me. No doubt Madeline had arranged the whole thing, either by threatening Shanna in some way or promising her a rich payday if she succeeded in murdering me. But Madeline had also realized that I would more than likely take out the other woman instead, and now the acid elemental was going to trap me with my own survival. Clever.

“Recognize her?” Dobson asked. “Her employer reported her missing when she didn't show up for work today.”

Despite the gears grinding in my mind at this revelation, I kept my face calm, stared at him, and arched an eyebrow. “And you immediately jumped to the conclusion that I murdered her?”

“Shanna Bannister was seen entering your restaurant this morning. And she never came back out.” A thin smile twisted Dobson's face. “Given your reputation, it wasn't hard to put two and two together.”

A couple of the customers gasped, but most of them started nodding their heads and muttering to each other. Everyone in the underworld knew that I was the Spider, but they weren't the only ones. All of my staff had gotten wind of the rumors too, and the few customers who hadn't heard the whispers hadn't been paying attention.

“Now, don't make me call the rest of my men in here to cart you out,” Dobson said. “Save yourself that much embarrassment.”

He gestured at the windows. I hadn't noticed before, but four cop cars were parked on the street outside, with six more uniformed officers waiting on the sidewalk. All of the cops stared in through the glass at me, their hands on their guns, ready to storm inside and strong-arm me out of here, should I do something supremely satisfying but ultimately stupid, like cut Dobson's throat where he stood.

But if I went outside and got into one of those cop cars, I wouldn't ever get back out again. I knew it instinctively,
the same way I knew Madeline had set this whole thing up. She hadn't cared an iota about her maid, and when the woman hadn't been able to kill me, Madeline had decided that having me arrested for murder would be a fun way to torture me before I died. If this hadn't been her plan all along.

If I went with the cops, no doubt good ole Captain Lou Dobson would put a clip full of bullets in my chest on the way to the police station, claiming that I'd tried to escape. Then I would be dead
and
disgraced, and Madeline could get on with her plans for the Ashland underworld, whatever they might be.

“Don't make this any harder on yourself, Blanco,” Dobson barked. “You can come along quietly . . .”

He didn't add
or else
. He didn't have to.

“If you so much as flap your hand at me again, I'm calling my lawyer and suing your sorry ass for harassment,” I snapped.