“I could use one of those too,” Bristol said.

Burke shook another to the top, and Bristol made a show of wrapping her lips around the offered cigarette.

Nic gritted his teeth and said, “Can I talk to you over here for one sec, Ms. Whelan?”

She batted her eyes at him and said, “You’ll have to wait until I finish my cigarette. I know my smoking offends your sensitive nostrils.”

“It’s not my nostrils I’m worried about. It’s your lungs. Can we please not do this now? I need to focus in there.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Fine. Just try to remember why we’re here, please.”

“You’re the one making something out of nothing.”

“Did the two of you date?” Burke asked.

“Briefly,” Bristol said. “Thankfully, it was over before it began.”

Nic bit back a harsh reply and said, “What is it that a ‘Criminal Patterns Analysis Consultant’ does exactly?”

Burke seemed to consider that a moment, and replied, “Beats the shit out of me, but I guess we’re about to find out.”

Chapter 18

Kruger removed the hidden Colt 1911 from the drawer of Quentin Yarborough’s obsidian-colored desk. He examined the weapon, stuck it into the back of his belt, and slid his large frame down into one of the visitor’s chairs. He gestured toward the manager’s chair and said, “Please, have a seat. This is your office, after all.”

Quentin Yarborough walked over and sat down. Every movement dripped with a smug sense of superiority. He knew that Quentin had no trouble with people of other races. Many of the manager’s clientele on the gold bullion side of GoBox were Nigerian warlords and Saudi princes. His lack of respect was because Quentin still felt he was dealing with common thugs. As was most often the case, a demonstration would be required.

Kruger leaned back in the chair and looked around the office. The colors were bright blues, one whole wall was blue with a large mirror in a silver frame in its center. It was behind Kruger, positioned so that Quentin could observe without looking directly. The floor was tile but had a black and white bull’s-eye design that gave the impression you were falling. Everything was leather and intricately carved wood. All very modern and elegant.

“Are those cigars on your desk?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Cuban?”

“No, that would be illegal.”

“Please, let’s not play games. I’ll take one from your private stock.”

Quentin curled up his lip but then opened a cabinet and removed a small humidor. He produced a long Maduro cigar and held it out for Kruger.

He took it and said, “Do you have a light?”

Quentin gritted his teeth and replied, “If you’re going to smoke in here, may I at least turn on the exhaust fan?”

“Of course.”

Quentin flipped on a switch and a tiny click and whir was all the sound the fan made.

Kruger laughed. “You had them put in a whisper exhaust fan in your office so that you could smoke cigars with your rich clients?”