His expression remained dubious as he added more Patrón to both their glasses. “Seriously? You have a pet crab?”

“I believe I’ve answered that.”

He said nothing for a few heartbeats, then, “Okay, this is where you ask me about my pets.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t care about your pets.”

Okay, that sounded harsh. She hadn’t said it to hurt him, and she might have found a gentler way to phrase it were it not for the tequila mixing with the wine from dinner—in vino veritas and all that—but no matter: It rolled right off him and he launched into a lengthy discourse on how he’d always had a dog as a kid and would have one now if his schedule would allow it, blah-blah-blah. He kept the tequila flowing while he rambled.

His eyelids were at half-mast as he concluded his doggy dissertation with a jarring non-sequitur: “The Septimus people have marked someone for death.”

“Whoa!” Hari said. “Where did that come from?”

“I was visiting a dark web chatroom last night and this guy who calls himself ‘Belgiovene’ said it looked like he was going to be doing ‘another freebee.’ I’ve been tracking this guy since February when he talked about an ‘easy-peasy freebee’ that involved pushing a guy into the Hudson and watching him go down for the third time. That’s exactly how Russ died.”

“Your brother?” Hari remembered the name from yesterday. “You think he killed your brother?”

“Sure as I can be without actually witnessing it. When someone asked him why for free, he said an organization he belongs to targets a person now and then and taps him to do the dirty work.”

“And you think that organization is Septimus?”

He shrugged. “The timing and everything else fits.”

He started to pour himself more Patrón but she stopped him.

“I think you’ve had enough. You’re already slurring.”

“You’re right. I don’t want it to affect my performance.”

“What performance?”

“You know—you and me…later.”

“Oh, you’ve definitely had too much.”

“No, just enough.”

“You do realize, don’t you, that I’m old enough that, had I been a promiscuous teenybopper, I could be your mother?”

He blinked. “You’re saying you’re fifteen years older than me—so that makes you, what, like, forty?”

“I—older than I. And yes, I’m guessing fifteen is about right.”

He gave a lopsided grin. “Well, you sure don’t look it. I’d put you at thirty, tops.”

She repressed a laugh. Yeah, right.

“Flattery will get you everywhere—almost.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. “Off to bed with you, my friend.”

He grinned. “Just what I was talking about!”

She opened her door and guided him into the hall. “I mean your bed—alone.”

“What?” He looked genuinely shocked. “You mean we’re both in this nice hotel far from home and we’re not going to hook up?”

“I commend you on your grasp of the situation.”

“Well, at least walk me back to my room.”

“I already have.” She pointed across the hall. “There’s your door.”