Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Seamus, you big, glorious man, it’s always such a pleasure when you drop by my home unexpectedly like this even though I always tell you not to.” He beams happily but doesn’t invite me inside.
“Oliver, you’re looking perfect as always.”
He runs a hand through his curly brown hair. “Ah, darling, I know that already. Now really, what can I do for you?”
“I’m here for your usual.” My eyebrows raise. He knows damn well what that means. Oliver gives me a cheeky sigh, glancing over my shoulder toward the street before reluctantly beckoning me to follow him.
“The terrace then.”
He leads me through his home. It’s a total wreck, filled with thrift store art, clothes hanging on racks, boxes of fake designer shoes and handbags, and at least four cats. It smells like a mix between a discount store and a vet’s office. A peacock screen lays jumbled against the wall. Small statuettes of strange gods are thrown at tilted angles on the fireplace mantle. There’s no TV, but about six thousand books piled all over the place. He’s got the largest collection of vintage erotica in the world, or at least that’s what he tells me.
We step out through a sliding door after kicking over a jumble of old top hats. The terrace isn’t much better. Plants are everywhere, half going to weeds. His only chairs are made from rotting rattan. I’m afraid they’ll break if I sit in them and don’t bother. Oliver pokes around, fussing with watering a few cacti that look like they’re about to die.
“I take it you’re looking for something.” Oliver glances at me and wrinkles his nose. “You never do come for social calls anymore, darling.”
“I never have and never will. You heard about my family’s issues?”
“I hear all sorts of things. They really should call me Oliver the Ears, but you know.” He touches the scar that runs across the bridge of his nose. Nobody has any idea how he got it. “Yes, darling, I heard about the dead boys. All very nasty.”
Despite the mess of this place, Oliver is the wealthiest and most talented information broker in New York. If there’s a secret worth knowing, it passes through his fingers first. Dozens of rich and powerful people pay him enormous sums of money to spy on their rivals. He’s been passing morsels along to my crew for years now, and he’s never once been wrong.
“I’m guessing you don’t know who did it.”
“Unfortunately. Or else I’d already have named some outrageous sum.” He whistles to himself before collapsing into one of the falling-apart chairs. Somehow it doesn’t crumble to dust and mold. “There is something you might find interesting, however.”
“Before you start, what will it cost?”
“Funny you say that.” His smirk grows larger, and I have a feeling this is going to be bad. “I don’t want money this time.”
My eyebrows raise. “That’s a first.”
“Don’t get used to it. However, you happen to have something I want more than cold, hard cash.” He breathes deeply and sighs. “You have your wife.”
I lean forward. “Better explain.”
He laughs lightly, waving his hands. “Don’t get all growly and scary on me now, Seamus. Your wife’s boutique carries my absolute favorite line of scarves. They’re these incredibly beautiful silk things straight from this blind weaver out of Russia. Gorgeous, just gorgeous, and she’s the only source in the city.”
“Then go to her shop.”
“But they’ve been sold out.” He pouts at me and drapes a wrist across his forehead. “Alas, poor Oliver, no scarf to his name.”
Dealing with this guy sometimes is such a pain in the ass.
This is how everyone must feel about me.
“If I talk to Alina and get you a scarf, will you tell me something worthwhile?”
“Three scarves. And I want the new patterns with the little dots and curves. She’ll know what I mean.” He peers at me like a hungry fox. “And I want a private appointment later today. I have a date tonight and nothing to wear.”
I take out my phone and send a quick text. I have an important client coming to your shop after close.
“Done. Talk.”
“So brusque. You must really be in a bad spot. Normally, you’re so chatty.” He stretches with a groan and leaps to his feet. “There’s a new killer in town. Which is very interesting since that happens to coincide with all your dead bodies.”
I lean toward him. “Who is it?”
“I can’t give you a name.”
“Then what use is this?”
“Just listen, darling, and stop being so impatient. Gosh, getting married really shoved a flagpole up your puckered little asshole.” He leans against the table and studies me shrewdly. “From what I understand, this person goes by the name Molchanie. It’s Russian for ‘silence,’ in case you’re a little rusty.”
“Sounds dramatic.”
“He’s straight out of Moscow, from what I’ve been told. Very good too and extremely expensive. Not many people can afford his services.”