Why try to kill Riona Griffin, though? And why try to make the drowning look accidental?

Most times when a mafia boss orders a killing, he wants to send a message. If the intent were to threaten the Griffins, or to revenge a past wrong, the hitman would have just shot Riona in the street. Or something much worse . . .

When you kill someone secretly, that’s personal.

The hit was directed at Riona, and Riona alone.

Because of something she did. Or something she knows . . .

Riona works all day long without taking a break for lunch. My stomach is growling, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of begging for food.

Around six p.m., she finally starts packing up the papers on her desk.

“Chow time?” I say.

Riona checks her watch. “I’m meeting Dean for dinner,” she says.

“Who’s Dean?” I ask her.

“My boyfriend,” she says primly.

“Can’t wait to meet him.”

She frowns. “You’re not coming.”

“Sorry, darlin.’ I’m your bodyguard. That means anywhere you go, I go too.”

She narrows her eyes at me, and I can tell she’s trying to decide whether this is worth arguing. On the one hand, I think Riona hates not getting her way. On the other, I’m fixing her with a look that makes it plain that I’m planning to stick to her like honey on a bear paw. She’s not getting rid of me till this job is done.

“Fine,” she snaps at last. “But I don’t think Dean is going to like this.”

“He might.” I shrug. “I’m a pretty likable guy.”

I grab my jacket and follow her over to the elevator.

“You got a car?” I ask her.

“No,” she says. “I don’t need one. I only live a few blocks from the office. And it’s easy to get a cab or an Uber if I want to go anywhere else.”

“Easy for someone to pretend to be a cab driver, too,” I tell her, eyebrow raised.

“Well that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” she says. “In case of murderous, phony cab drivers.”

I can tell she’s already chafing under the inconvenience of having her plans and routines challenged. And this is only day one. We’ve barely gotten started.

Riona strides out to the curb, holding up her hand to hail the nearest cab. As it pulls up, I reach out to open her door for her.

“I can do it,” she snaps. She pulls the handle herself and slides into the backseat. I follow after her, sitting directly behind the driver.

“Where to?” he asks us.

“Amuse Bouche,” Riona says.

“Great seafood at that place,” the cabbie says cheerfully.

Riona ignores him, and me as well, looking out the window as we cross over the river.

“So tell me about Dean,” I say to Riona.

“Why?”

“Because I need to know about everyone in your life. Everyone you’ve been interacting with.”

“Dean doesn’t have anything to do with . . . ” she glances up at the cab driver, who’s listening to a country song, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “Anything to do with what happened,” she finishes.