“She said she didn’t know the code,” Diaz said.
“She could easily be lying.”
He shook his head. “That wasn’t my read. And why are you so cynical?”
“Fifty percent of the stuff people tell me is bullshit. That’s why.”
“So, what, you think she’s a suspect?”
Charlotte shrugged, mainly to irritate him.
“Get serious.”
“She didn’t pull the trigger, but that doesn’t mean she’s not involved. I happened to notice she’s the only one who got out of there last night without taking a bullet.”
Diaz shook his head, and she could tell she was getting on his nerves. Which was good. He did better work when he was trying to prove her wrong about something.
“Speaking of liars, we’re headed to the Hunan place,” Charlotte informed him. “The delivery kid is due back at work at four.”
Diaz pulled a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. “Ryan Conyers, eighteen years old. He was a block from Logan’s house at the time of the murder but claims he didn’t see anything.” Diaz looked at her. “You don’t think he gave us a straight story?”
“Not even kinda.”
Jeremy didn’t say a word as they left the police station, which was fine, because Kira didn’t feel like talking. Ollie’s phone had been the best lead she had, and she’d willingly handed it over to the police, who probably wouldn’t even be able to open it. What a waste.
She cast a glance at Jeremy as he pulled out of the parking lot. She couldn’t believe she was riding around in a truck with a perfect stranger who was armed and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds.
He had an intensity about him, and his movements and posture signaled years of training. Simply put, he looked dangerous. Not to her, specifically, but to anyone who threatened him—although why anyone would was a mystery. You’d have to be crazy. Or have a death wish. In his line of work, he’d probably encountered people from both camps.
She wondered what sort of clients he protected. Rock stars? Actors? Famous athletes? If so, this assignment was going to bore him to tears. He’d probably already figured that out.
Jeremy shot a look at her but didn’t talk. More of that cheery attitude.
“I need to go by my office,” Kira told him. “It’s on McKinney Street, south of—”
“I know.”
He shifted lanes, but instead of turning at the next light, he kept going. Half a block later, he swung into a restaurant parking lot.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Food stop.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“We’re stopping.”
He got out, and Kira huffed out a breath as she pushed open her door. Space City Diner, according to the sign. The building was long and silver, designed to look like an Airstream camper.
Jeremy led her to the entrance and held the door open. Kira stepped into the narrow restaurant that had two rows of booths on either side of an aisle packed with tables. Ignoring the PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign, Jeremy touched her elbow and steered her to a booth behind the cash register, where he slid into the seat facing the door.
Kira stood beside the table for a moment before scooting in across from him. He rubbed his hand over his unshaven face and reached for a menu.
“What’s with the power trip?”
He didn’t look up. “I need food. So do you. You look strung out.”
She barked out a laugh. “I look strung out? Have you seen a mirror lately?”
He glanced up, and his brows furrowed.
A waitress walked over. She had bleached-blond hair and a brisk manner that said she didn’t appreciate time wasters. She wiped down their table and tucked a tip into her apron pocket.
“Get y’all some drinks?”
“Coffee, please,” Kira said.
“Water.”
The waitress walked off, and Jeremy slid his menu behind the condiment bottles.
“I had Trent drop off your car at your house,” he told her.
“Who’s Trent?”
“The other half of your detail. He was in the meeting you skipped.”
Kira sighed. “And how does he know where I live?”
“It’s in your file.”
Great, they had a file already. It probably included her office address, along with a bunch of personal information about her.
“You need to get your car looked at,” Jeremy continued. “Trent says it sounds like a transmission problem.”
“I’ll add it to my list.”
The waitress returned with their drinks.
“What do you recommend here?” Kira asked her.
“Breakfast or lunch?”
“Either.”
“Space City Hash. Best thing on the menu.”
“Done,” Kira said.
“Same,” Jeremy said.
She jotted their orders and was flagged down by a cop at a neighboring table. Half the people in the place were cops, which made Kira hopeful about the coffee.
She tore open a sugar packet and looked at Jeremy.
She didn’t like that a team of strangers had a file on her. It was her own fault for agreeing to all this, but still. She didn’t want a constant escort, especially one who was a stickler for rules. She had to bend rules occasionally to get her job done.
“Listen, Jeremy. I appreciate Brock Logan’s concern for his team’s safety, and it’s generous of the firm to hire you guys. But this arrangement isn’t going to work for me. Not without some changes.”
Jeremy watched her.
“I have to fly under the radar in this job,” she said. “That’s going to be hard to do with a supersized bodyguard tagging along behind me all the time.”
His face remained blank.
“Hello? Do you have a response?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“This is not a relevant discussion.”
She tipped her head to the side. “Are you always this rude?”
He looked at her, and she caught a flicker of remorse in his eyes.
“Sorry.” He rubbed his chin and sighed. “I’m jet-lagged. Haven’t slept in forty-eight hours.”
That piqued her interest. And his roadkill look made a little more sense now.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
“Working.”
“Where?”
He watched her, as if debating whether to reveal more, which was ironic considering he had a freaking file on her.
“Spent the last three weeks in Southeast Asia with a client,” he said.
“Oh, yeah?” She sipped her coffee. It was hot and strong, just what she needed. “And what kind of clients do you guys have? I don’t know the first thing about you.”
“It varies. We get politicians, celebrities, business moguls.” He leaned back against the booth and seemed to loosen up, although he continued to glance at the door.
“Sounds exciting.”
“Not usually.”
“So was this client a celebrity or—”
“Tech CEO.”
“Anyone I’d know?”
“Doubtful.” His gaze drifted over her shoulder, and she got the feeling he wanted to change the subject, which made her determined to pursue it.
“Try me. What’s he do?”
Jeremy sighed. “You ever heard of Cloud Corp?”
The name rang a bell. She’d read something in the news recently.
“Oh, my God, that guy? Leo What’s-his-name? Rollins?”