Page 33 of Love and Lies

“Here’s your tea. A blend of lime blossom and lemon balm. If that doesn’t chill you out, the only other thing I can suggest is a blow to the head.” The server laughed, and I joined in. Maybe I could just knock Jessiah out and pretend it was a break-in? Okay, you’re actually going crazy at this point.

“Hey, can I ask”—evidently, I was now desperate enough to ask total strangers for advice—“if there was a guy you were having issues with, and he had something you wanted… how would you go about getting it?”

“What happened with the guy?” she asked.

“Well… there’s kind of some history there. We had an argument, he provoked me, and I said something hurtful.” Something very hurtful, which I now really regretted. Even though I couldn’t stand the guy.

The server shrugged. “Have you tried apologizing?”

“Apologizing?” I echoed.

“Yeah.” She nodded. “My mom always says the ability to say sorry is the best quality in a person. Oftentimes even just admitting you did something stupid is enough.”

Two other customers were waiting to pay, so she left me alone with her words, which in hindsight seemed to resonate. Maybe she was right. Maybe I could apologize to Jessiah, and if he accepted my apology, he’d invite me in. Then all I needed was to find a way to get two minutes alone to look for the notebook. If he could be lured outside, it might work. I just needed a diversion.

Ideally, an official one.

Suddenly, the plan started to take shape in my mind, as if all I’d had to do was clear that first hurdle. I got out my phone and called Malia. Her shift had to be over by now, so, without telling her what I was planning, I simply asked her to come help.

She turned up at the café shortly after and parked herself in the chair next to me. “I came as soon as I could. What’s the emergency?”

“The notebook,” I said.

“The notebook?” She looked quizzical. “You mean Adam’s notebook? The one Simon Foster told you about? Is that why you were asking about Jessiah’s address?”

“Yup.” I grinned. “You’re going to be a great detective, Malia.”

She gave me a shove on the arm. “Okay, so you’re going on the assumption that Adam’s things are in Jessiah’s apartment.”

“I’m hoping so. If he’s gotten rid of the bag of stuff—or, God forbid, given it to his mother—I have no chance of getting it.” And then I’d have to think of something else. “But maybe he kept it. I would have.”

Malia’s expression was skeptical yet endearing—it was a look she’d perfected with Valerie. Malia had always been the sensible one in their friendship, and she seemed to realize the tradition was continuing with me.

“Let me guess, I have some part to play in this plan of yours to get ahold of the book. What are you thinking?”

“I’m going to ring the buzzer,” I said, as convincingly as I could.

Malia frowned. “You’re going to ring the buzzer.”

“Exactly.”

“And then?”

“Jessiah and I will talk, or at least I hope we will. Then you’ll have to lure him out of the building.” I continued quickly before she could say no. “You could tell him he’s committing a parking violation, or something. That would buy me a few minutes to look around the apartment. I know my way around, so if the notebook’s there, I’m sure I’ll find it quickly.”

The fondness in her expression vanished, leaving only doubt. “Len, I’m a police officer. I can’t lure someone out of their own building under false pretenses. And anyway, I don’t know if Jessiah even has a car, let alone what kind. This is New York City.” I took her point—a lot of people in the city didn’t own a car. Rich people usually did, though. And my gut told me that that was true of Jessiah, too.

“But you can find out, can’t you? Surely it’d just take a quick call to a colleague to check.” I gave her the best puppy-dog eyes I could muster.

She sighed. “Yes, I can. But your plan still isn’t going to work. Even if he does have a car, he’s a New Yorker—he’s not stupid enough to leave it in a no-parking zone. We need something else.” I saw cogs whirring behind her eyes and rejoiced inwardly. Malia would help me—I knew it.

Without another word, she picked up her phone and made a call, mentioning Jessiah’s name and explaining briefly what she wanted to know. She nodded several times at the response, and finally she hung up.

“It’s a black pickup, a Ford F-150,” she informed me. “It’s a very common model, but I’m sure there won’t be too many of them on this street.”

“He drives a pickup?” I stared at her in disbelief. I hadn’t expected that. Although perhaps it made sense. I couldn’t imagine a guy like Jessiah driving a Lamborghini, or a Maserati. Or even an Audi or Mercedes.

“Evidently.” Malia put her phone away. “Come on, let’s go and look for it. Maybe we’ll get lucky and there’ll be some damage that I can use as a pretext to get him outside.” I could have hugged her, but she fobbed me off. “I’m not doing this in an official capacity, just so we’re clear. Not under any circumstances.”