Sex, Murder And A Double Latte. Kyra DavisЧитать онлайн книгу.
with extra whipped cream” kind of morning.
I threw on a pair of torn hipster jeans, a Gap T-shirt and a corduroy blazer, and was pulling on a boot when the phone rang. Oh goody, I got to tell someone else how awesome I was! Maybe I’d even get to share the joy with a telemarketer.
“Hola, Sophie the great, at your service.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
Just a click, followed by a dial tone.
I put the phone down and started working on the other boot. “I hate it when people do that. How hard is it to say ‘sorry, wrong number’?” Mr. Katz swished his tail in agitation. I guess for him that really would be a challenge.
The phone rang again.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” I snapped it up and cradled it against my shoulder. “It’s still me. You have the wrong number.”
Nothing. Not even a click.
“Hello? Is somebody there?” I sat up a little straighter and waited for a response.
They disconnected.
I pressed the hang-up button without putting the phone down.
It rang again. Three times, and then it stopped.
Who would want to prank-call me? The characters in my books got prank calls all the time, but my real world had always been blissfully prank-call free. I tapped my fingernail against the mouthpiece and waited to see if they would try again. After a few minutes, I gave up. Probably some bored teenager who had seen the movie Scream one too many times. I pulled my purse over my shoulder and stepped out of my apartment. As I was double-locking the door I could hear the ring. I didn’t bother to go back in to pick it up. The SOB could call all day long if he wanted. I had a Frappuccino to order.
I headed on foot to one of the fifteen or twenty Starbucks located in my vicinity and when I arrived I decided that the experience wouldn’t be complete without a New York Times. There was one last paper for sale on the rack by the counter and I could practically hear it calling to me, enticing me to spend the hours necessary to read it cover to cover, knowing the whole time that I had absolutely nothing else I needed to do. My fingers had literally grazed the first page when it was snatched out of my grasp.
I whirled around to see a six-foot-something brunette already scanning the paper with dark brown eyes. “Hey, I was going to buy that.”
“Guess you’ll have to buy another one.” He spoke with the slightest foreign accent.
“In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t another one. I had my hand on that paper, and you took it.”
“So buy a Chronicle. I just came from New York this morning and I’m going to buy a New York Times.”
“Well, if the Times is so damn important to you, you should have bought one in New York.” He shrugged and started reading the paper again. “Hello. We’re having a confrontation here. Look, I don’t really care if you’re from New York. I don’t care if you’re Rudolph Giuliani himself. That’s my paper.”
“Next in line, please,” a voice called from behind the cash register.
“Are you going to order, or shall I go in front of you?” he asked, not even looking up from his reading.
“Oh. My. God!” This was not happening. No one was this big of an ass. I stormed up to the perky little blonde in the green apron.
“Hi. Can I take your order?”
“That guy just took my paper.”
“Oh, um…” The blonde glanced around, trying to find someone else she could pass me off to. “Okay, sorry. So he took your paper?”
“Yes. I was going to buy it, and he took it.”
“Oh, well, okay, the thing is…well, this is kind of my first day and this sort of thing wasn’t covered in the training. Do you want to talk to a supervisor?”
I just stared at her for a moment. It was a fairly reasonable answer, but somehow I had been hoping that the blond Starbucks trainee was really a ninja in disguise and would knock Mr. New York senseless. But that didn’t seem to be the case, and it was probably a pretty safe bet that her supervisor would also be lacking in the superhero department. I quickly reviewed my options. That didn’t take much time because I had none. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine. Just get me a Grande Caramel Brownie Frappuccino—and there had better be a lot of whipped cream to make up for this.”
A customer with unnaturally red hair and a tie-dyed shirt who was being assisted at the adjacent register smiled and leaned over in my direction. “You know, my sister’s dating a Native American,” she said winking at me conspiratorially. “I think you all have a really interesting culture.”
Oh, I was so not in the mood for this. “Actually I’m Irish. I’m just wearing a lot of bronzer.” I turned back to my cashier. “Could you make my drink now?”
The cashier wrote some illegible words on a paper cup and quickly entered my order into the register.
I looked back at the newspaper thief. He was watching…and laughing. The fucker was laughing at me. That’s it, he was on the list. In my next book I would be sure that the first murder victim would be a dark-haired New York tourist and the police would find him bludgeoned to death in an alley behind a Starbucks with a New York Times shoved up his ass.
I picked up my drink and sat down at a table by the window that happened to have a discarded Chronicle resting on top. Although it was probably not the intention of its previous owner, it felt like the paper was left there for the sole purpose of further pissing me off. I pushed it aside and busied myself by mentally formulating the details of how I was going to whack the jerk who had just screwed up my morning. The task plus the extra dose of sugar and caffeine were just beginning to perk me up again when my desired victim strolled over to the table, winnings in hand.
“I read the articles I wanted to read. Would you like this now?”
Oh, this was too much. “No, thanks, I’m pretty happy with the Chronicle.”
He gave me a little half smile and sat down opposite me. “Now, you obviously want it. You’re not going to let your pride keep you from taking what you want, are you?” He pushed the paper toward me, and I unwillingly noted his hands…big, strong… God, I loved guys with hands like that, with the exception of this guy. This guy was a schmuck.
“Shouldn’t you be out taking pictures of cable cars or something like that?”
“Oh, I’m not a tourist. I was just in New York wrapping up some old business. I made San Francisco my home a few months ago.”
“Oh goody, another East Coast transplant moving to our wonderful city. How original.”
He laughed. “Actually, I was originally a Russian transplant moving to Israel and then an Israeli transplant moving to New York. So, you see, I’ve been condescended to by the natives of three continents. You’re going to have to work a little harder if you plan on offending me now.” He gently pushed the paper a little closer to me. “Take the paper.”
I gave him my best glare but I couldn’t quite keep my fingers from inching toward the publication.
“There are some really interesting articles,” he said. “Corruption in the political world, greed in the business world—violence in the art world, all the usual sensationalism.”
I begrudgingly took the paper. “Violence in the art world?”
“Mmm…it seems there’s been a conviction in the KK Money murder trial.”
I noted the headline on the front page. “It’s JJ Money.” JJ Money was a gangsta rapper who, seven months ago, had been killed in the exact same manner as one of his songs, shot in both kneecaps, once in the stomach and once in the head. Rival rap star