I gave Jung his report. I minimized the fire, though the look on Barb’s face told me I wasn’t fooling her. I also omitted my Dumpster dive. And the mess I’d made with Ben. I barely tasted the pancakes. I needed them for fuel, nothing more. I was too worried, too antsy, to enjoy them.

“You look exhausted,” Barb said. “Maybe you should rest.”

“I’m good,” I lied. I felt groggy and sore from the ladder climbs and I could still smell smoke on my skin. “I need to keep moving.”

“Why can’t I help?” Jung pleaded. “I could go with you.”

Elbow on the table, I rested my head in my hand. We’d gone around and around on this already. “No.”

Jung stood. “I could walk out of here right now. You can’t stop me.”

Barb brandished the spatula. “I can.”

“What are you going to do, flip me to death?”

Barb grinned. It was a sneaky, conniving grin, the Covey grin. Jung had no idea. “Do you know what I could do with a spatula?”

Jung backed up, gulped. “You’re a nun, right?”

Barb’s eyes narrowed. “Am I?”

I shoved the plate away, stood. “I have to go. Stay put. Both of you.”

“For how long?” Jung whined. “This is nuts. Not only am I being forced to hide here, but you’ve left me with a very scary nun with a spatula.”

“You’re not hiding, you’re waiting.”

“I’m waiting for you to do what I should do. He was my friend, not yours.”

“No calls, no contact with your friends, understood?”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

I turned to Barb. “He doesn’t step foot out of this building. If you need help keeping him here, ask Mrs. Vincent.” I glanced at Jung. “She won’t need a spatula.”

Barb scoffed. “And I won’t need Mrs. Vincent.”

The two were arguing when I slipped out of the apartment. That was good. At least I knew Jung was being kept occupied. I was done playing mouse to Spada’s cat. Marta said I couldn’t approach him, but she didn’t say a thing about approaching his wife. Did she know she was sleeping with a psychopath?

Chapter 46

Chapter 46

I took up a position across the street from Spada’s brownstone on West Webster in an empty play lot under a full, leafy shade tree. I wondered if he was inside, lounging in an easy chair, sniffing brandy, contented, while his victims lay cold in their graves. He’d fronted his place with top-of-the-line fencing, and the wide red door at the top of the stairs sported a door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. I could practically smell the pretension from where I stood. Spada thought a great deal of himself, and not nearly enough of anyone else, but his confidence was wholly misplaced, given that he killed people for profit.