Chapter 11LinkCassie
Chapter 11
Link
Cassie stops dead as we round the corner to the back of the office. “You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack!” I pull the keys out of my pocket and unlock the passenger-side door for her.
“That thing can’t still run.”
“You watch your tone. Ol’ Bessie’s a workhorse, but she’s got the attitude of a mule. Let her hear you talking smack, and she’ll poke you with a spring or lay your seat back in the middle of the highway.” I lovingly pet the beat-up station wagon before unlocking my door and getting in.
It’s all about respect .
“No wonder you wanted to drive my rental car so badly,” Cassie says as she fights Bessie for the seat belt.
I grin at her, proving my point about her tone, then reach over and tug on the seat belt just right. It lets loose, and I buckle her in, ignoring the heat coming off her and how close our faces are at this moment.
“Let’s get some grub!”
There’s only one place in town good enough for Cassie, so I start Bessie and drive the long way around the building so she doesn’t have to see the state of Cassie’s car. There's no need to upset Bessie.
“Where are we going?” Cassie peers out the window.
“The Castle.” It’s the only restaurant in town that uses real candles at the tables and in the chandeliers.
I try not to think about the fact that I bring dates there.
“I’ve never heard of it.” Cassie sits up straighter, looking for what else in town has changed.
“That’s not the real name. I don’t even know the real name. But it’s shaped like a castle.”
“You know I’m not a kid anymore, right?”
“Not that kind of castle. And yes, I know you’re not a kid anymore.”
A little too well.
When we pull into the parking lot a few minutes later, Cassie looks confused. “Didn’t this used to be that magic store?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Then she gives me another look that says again she’s not a kid anymore.
“Just trust me.”
With a laugh that’s a hair too harsh, she gets out of the car.
I try to run to the door to hold it for her, but she’s too fast. The guy at the host station recognizes her, and when she tells him she needs a table for two, he looks right past me to find her other party. When I follow them to the table, his eyes rake over me, and he clearly doesn’t think I’m worthy.
That makes two of us, pal.
When he finally leaves us, I lean over the table and whisper, “Are we gonna be in the tabloids now?”
“Write this down,” Cassie says, unraveling her black cloth napkin and putting it in her lap.
Right down to business. Just like her father.
I take out my notebook and pen. “Shoot.”
How the color drains from her face reminds me how much I need to think before speaking. But she recovers quickly. “Anthony Rollins was an agent at our firm but left and took a few clients with him. Marissa Farmer was Gary’s—my agent’s—assistant. She left with Anthony, and now Mr. Simpson thinks she’s spreading rumors about me. Bad enough to get me blacklisted.”
The waiter takes our drink order, and I get an appetizer sampler for the table.
“And—I have to ask—are you sure you’re being blacklisted?” I ask after he leaves.
“Lincoln,” Cassie says in her most annoyed voice. “I went from the second lead on a hit show to going through three rounds of auditions for a tampon commercial… that I didn’t get.”
“What’s this woman like? Did you get into it with her? Some kind of old beef?”
Cassie’s eyebrows scrunch. “You watch too much TV. No, I didn’t ‘get into it’ with her. I’m nice to people.”
I bite both my lips to keep from laughing.
“I’m nice to people who deserve it.”
“And she didn’t do anything to stop deserving it?”
Cassie shrugs and shakes her head at the same time. “Not that I can recall.” Then she licks her bottom lip the way she does when she’s thinking. “I barely saw her. Gary always brought me right into his office and handled my business himself. I never got handed off to her.”
Something in Cassie’s expression darkens.
“What?”
“Until the last few months. When things dried up and he…”
Dropped her.
“Good,” I say.
“Good?” She doesn’t seem to agree.
“Well, good that whatever happened had already started before you had much interaction with her. More effect than cause, probably.”
“Then we’re back to square one.” Cassie takes her drink directly from the waiter when he offers it and begins to chug. I can tell it’s time to change the subject from how her hand shakes. We’ll finish tackling this later.
“I’ll have the ribeye with mashed potatoes,” I tell the waiter.
“It comes with a salad, too. House or Caesar.” I’m surprised the waiters don’t recognize me by now, with how much I’ve come to the place.
“Neither.” The advantage of having come before is already knowing what I want.
“I’ll take his salad. House. Dressing on the side. And the baked salmon with asparagus.” Cassie pushes her menu toward the waiter. He’s barely gone again when she leans in and whispers, “Caveman.”
I grunt and scratch invisible fleas from my clean, shaved chin.
Her reluctant smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all year.
“All right, enough of that. Let’s see where we’re at with this heist!” I flip the page in my notebook and write down what I can remember. “Grandma’s necklace. Jilted lover. Family feud.”
“But why now?” Cassie asks what I was about to write next.
She’s a natural.
“Either someone stands to gain a lot now, or someone else stands to lose a lot.”
Cassie leans in, and I see the spark behind her eyes. She’s loving this. The waiter forces us apart with a plate of lettuce and other nonsense. As Cassie retreats to make room, I watch her composure retake hold. I’ve lost her.
“How’s your rabbit food?” I ask a few minutes later when I can’t take the silence any longer.
“How many rabbits do you know that eat salmon?” Her snark and dull-eyed stare are back in full force.
“Velveteen Rabbit totally eats salmon.”
“Who?”
“What? You don’t know the Velveteen Rabbit?”
“Can we please focus on the case? This is supposed to be a write-off lunch, remember?” Cassie stabs her lettuce and dips it in an oily red dressing.
“Oh, I remember,” I say, taking a huge bite of my steak.
“Suspects.” She looks at me expectantly.
“Theories first.” I shove another chunk of steak into my mouth and pick up my notebook. “Inside job. Random stranger?—”
“Lincoln,” Cassie groans. “Give me that. Stop talking with your mouth full. Gross!” She snatches the pen and notebook. “Phineas Abrams?—”
“Suspect,” I say, forcing myself to swallow my steak and nearly choke. “He’s on the suspect list.”
“He’s a theory and a suspect. The theory that he’s the perpetrator.”
“Fine. Makes sense, especially with the shooting.”
“Ugh!” Cassie slams the pen down. “I’m not writing that. You have no proof that it was him, for the necklace or the drive-by.”
“We’re not in the proof stage. We’re in the theory stage.” I tap the word ‘Theories’ on the top of the notebook.
“But you can’t use a theory about another crime to bolster a theory about this one! What does it mean for this case if one of your unsavory characters shot at us?”
“Nothing.”
“Exactly! You’re building a straw house.”
“The whole point of theories is to write them all down now and start crossing them off.”
She pushes the notebook back at me. “I’m not writing that. You’re wrong. It’s going to lead us down the wrong road.”
I take the pen and write Phin’s name. It doesn’t feel as triumphant as I wanted it to.
What if I’m right, and Phin shot at us? Cassie’s in danger. And if I’m wrong… if someone else shot at us…she might be in worse danger.
I have an overwhelming urge to drop this case altogether, give back the money, no matter how badly we need it, and put Cassie on the next plane out of here.
My steak sits untouched as every part of me screams to run. She’s not safe here. Not even in this fancy restaurant. I close my notebook and start pushing my mashed potatoes around the plate. I can’t keep my eyes off the door.
Why are there so many windows in this place? Points of entry everywhere!
“So,” Cassie says, waving a hand in front of my face to get my attention. “What are you looking for?”
I choke on nothing.
Cassie
Lincoln’s demeanor has changed since I brought up Phineas. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he was actually scared. But that can’t be it. Lincoln Suco isn’t scared of anything. It’s one of his most annoying qualities.
Still, he hasn’t stopped bouncing his leg and watching the doors since we wrote the man’s name on the notebook.
I look around, too. I’m not worried, not about being shot at again. What are the odds? No, my problem is… me.
Everyone here is so casual, so happy, chattering away like old friends or family. And here I am, in my Milano silk blouse and shoes that cost more than Lincoln’s station wagon. I know he tried to make me feel at home by picking the nicest restaurant he could think of, and it is nice. It’s just… I don’t belong here anymore.
I force myself to stop looking at other people and think about something—anything else. “So, what are you writing?” He clearly won’t answer my first question of what he was looking for.
Watching him squirm is almost worth every bit of discomfort I’ve had since my plane landed. But then, almost immediately, his face lights up.
Lincoln clears his throat and begins animatedly telling me about a case he and my dad worked on. “The guy was covered in feathers, and we couldn’t figure out where they came from. Every time we plucked him…” Lincoln wheezed with laughter. “More just kept appearing!”
Listening to him recount the story, I feel guilty for antagonizing him. Of course, he’d want to tell the stories of his cases. And they didn’t just belong to my dad. They were his, too.
The joy on his face, the boyish charm I haven’t seen in forever, reminds me of the good old days. That little smirk he has now as he says, “It was in the vent the whole time!” I know it all too well. It’s how he always gets his way with women and clients alike.
Maybe letting him write about his old cases with my dad isn’t such a bad thing after all. Not if it brings him this much happiness. Dad wouldn’t mind, if I’m being honest. He comes out as a hero in this one. Who could say no to that face? Maybe I really did misjudge his intent with his book.
Cassandra Marie!
I realize too late that I’m fawning over Lincoln Suco like a schoolgirl. I scoot my chair back hard enough that it loudly scrapes the floor. “I have to pee!” I blurt out.
Lincoln’s mouth falls open, and I nearly die right there on the spot. I drop my napkin on the table and flee.
“I have to pee?” I whisper to myself in the bathroom mirror. I splash cold water on my face, trying to get my cheeks to stop burning.
“Cassandra?” a small, quiet voice says from behind me. At first, I assume it’s a fan, but as I turn to smile at the stranger, I see a familiar face.
“Amber?”
“I thought that was you! How have you been?” Amber Connelly’s face goes through a rush of expressions in under a second, from uncertainty of whether I was me to awe at meeting an old friend-turned-celebrity to horror at what she’s just asked as she remembers my dad died.
“Hanging in there,” I say, giving the same platitude I’ve been saying for nearly a year. I look away as if I’m ready to leave, to release Amber from the awkward encounter.
“Did I see you here with Link?” Amber’s tone doesn’t sit well with me.
Did she follow me in here?
“He’s still got it,” Amber adds with a wink as if that wasn’t the worst thing to say to me right now. Not after the horror of emotions I just went through at the table.
Yes, he does , I agree reluctantly. But out loud, I say, “It’s a business dinner. We’re just going over a case.”
“Really?” The way Amber stretches the word to mean a multitude of things makes me want to slap her.
“Really,” I try to say as cheerily as I can. I flash her a polite smile that clearly says this conversation is over. It’s for her own good, too.
“Great! Then you won’t mind if I slip him my number.” Amber fishes in her purse for a pen and paper.
“Actually,” I say, thinking fast, “he’s deep in the zone about this case. How about I give it to him after? Maybe for dessert?” I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth.
“Would you? Thank you so much!” Amber folds the slip of paper neatly and places it in the middle of my outstretched palm. “He’s so dreamy.”
Um, the eighties called. They want their slang back.
“If you say so,” I reply with a shrug.
“Thanks! It’s great seeing you again.”
“You too,” I say to Amber’s back as she turns to leave.
As soon as she’s gone, I crumple the paper and drop it in the trash.
“He’s so dreamy ,” I mimic under my breath as I leave.
On the way back to the table, I have to shield my eyes from the light coming through the window. I almost can’t see Lincoln, though I know exactly where he is.
Don’t they have shades in this place?
I look over at the glare and see a dark sedan I’m sure I recognize. It’s the car that shot at us.
Lincoln’s frozen, staring out the window. I know he sees it, too. And I know this means we’re probably in a lot of danger, but I can’t help relishing the fact that there are eight-pointed stars on those rims.
When I finally reach the table, Lincoln jumps. Then he leaps up from his chair and wraps his arms around me. His lips brush mine, then press firmly until I have no choice but to allow him to kiss me. I also wrap my arms around him, but not in a hug. I grab the back of his shirt and pull it hard. But he doesn’t release me.
This is not what we bet on the rims!
I struggle against his embrace and the warmth of his lips on mine until I let go. Until every warring thought I’ve had for the past couple of days melts away, and there’s nothing left but us. Him. Lincoln Suco, the man I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember.
When he finally pulls away, I go with him, nearly falling over at the loss of his body pressed against mine. I want more. Need more. All this time we’ve wasted arguing when we could have been doing that.
And then I see it written all over his face.
He’s not looking at me. He’s looking past me. At the door. Where a large man is walking back toward the black sedan with his arms raised in defeat.
Lincoln catches me looking at him and smiles, my lipstick still smeared across his mouth. “It worked!”
I smile back. “Whew!”
It worked.
Of course, it worked. And, of course, it wasn’t real. He was just covering our faces so the bad guy didn’t see us. It was all for show.
Maybe Lincoln Suco should be the one in Hollywood.
“Definitely one of Phin’s guys,” Lincoln says, sitting back down like he didn’t just destroy the wall I’d built up between my heart and my old feelings for him.
I don’t sit down. I can’t. I can’t move or think or… breathe.
“This one’s bigger than the other one. Pure muscle. Nobody else can afford muscle like that.” He’s still talking. Why is he still talking?
I shake my head, not to disagree with him, but to clear it. He knows this guy. He knows who shot at us. He thinks it’s one of Phin’s guys, but it’s a different one than he expected.
I was right?
I was right!
The shooting is all Lincoln’s fault!
I wipe the kiss off my mouth and storm out of the restaurant. I don’t even care if the black sedan full of bad guys is still out there. It’s better than being in here with him for one more second.