Palindrome Read Online Free Page A

Palindrome
Book: Palindrome Read Online Free
Author: E. Z. Rinsky
Pages:
Go to
within fifteen years of birthing age, but this target’s icy exterior is surprisingly impenetrable.
    â€œActually, I think it’s best if I meet with Mr. Lamb in private,” she says.
    I give Sadie a glare like sorry, but you’re gonna have to scram, kid, and she reluctantly retreats back into her room.
    â€œSorry,” I say. “That’s my daughter. Like I said, I don’t usually meet clients here.”
    â€œI love children,” she says emptily. “You’re married?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhere’s her mother?” The question catches me off guard.
    â€œNot in the picture.”
    â€œNot in the picture?” Only her sharp gaze tells me it’s a question.
    â€œThis is getting pretty personal, considering you haven’t even told me your name yet.”
    She frowns, as if she’s displeased with herself, like this is a mistake she makes often and is working to correct.
    â€œOf course. That was rude. My name is Greta Kanter.”
    She doesn’t offer me her hand. Her gloves are still on. She’s not showing a sliver of flesh below where the crest of her tight black turtleneck hugs her neck. I’m thinking, if she’s a leper, then sign me up for leprosy.
    â€œNice to meet you, Greta. Well, first things first. If you don’t mind, I must insist on seeing some photo ID and knowing who gave you my name. Both are kind of standard.”
    She purses a pair of creamy lips and wordlessly plucks a green leather wallet from some fold of her pants, hands me a driver’s license. I copy down the info—­taking a little longer than I have to so I can admire a DMV photo that could pass for a glamour shot.
    She says, “I got your name from Orange.”
    Ugh .
    I was hired about eight months ago by a Columbia linguistics professor to gather proof that her loser husband was having an affair. She was all but sure he’d been cheating on her and didn’t want to give him a penny when she divorced him. It only took two days to figure out that whatever he was doing, he was doing it behind an incredibly sketchy-­looking metal grated door on West 59th Street, nestled between an old Polish restaurant and Laundromat. The husband stops a ­couple times a week in the early evening, buzzes in, then leaves four or five hours later. I figure, too much time for sex, plus I never see women coming or going. Must be drugs or gambling. Finally, after watching this guy for a week, I buzz in myself and wave to the little CC camera. A voice tells me to wait, and thirty seconds later a grotesque fat man in a tan suit materializes from the darkness, huffing from what must be some steep steps, followed by two dudes in sweatshirts, each about two heads taller than me and looking straight out of a Ukrainian mail-­order meathead catalogue.
    The fat guy is pale, with black eyes sunk deep into his rubbery face. He’s built like a 350-­pound teapot, and his face bulges and bloats in all the worst places. Gives me a greasy handshake, introduces himself as Matty Julius, but everyone calls him Orange. He’s doused in expensive cologne, and I catch the monogram on his silk pocket square. I think he puts in a lot of effort to draw attention from the parts of his appearance he can’t change. I also think he might be wearing a toupee.
    He explains he’s seen me out here taking pictures of his facade over the last few nights, and if I’d be so kind as to turn those photos over to him, he’d be happy to offer double whatever my current employer is paying me. I casually note the size of the rocks on his stubby fingers, think I could probably ask for triple and he wouldn’t blink, but explain that I already signed a contract—­I’m an investigator, not a mercenary. But he needn’t worry; the pictures will never be seen by anyone but my client.
    He nods, satisfied, impressed even. I can tell he’s one of these guys who
Go to

Readers choose