Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 2) (12 page)

“His youngest isn’t four yet,” Lau said. “School isn’t mandatory yet, so if he goes on an extended vacation, no-one will notice.”

“You can’t just take a three-year old hostage, Lau.”

Lau just looked at him, shrugged again and said, “I’m hungry.”

-o-

Bram woke from a tapping on the basement doors. Zeph. He scrambled for his
yukata
robe and felt for Katla, but she was gone. Normally he woke when she tried to slip out, but she must’ve worn him out. Bram strolled over the old mended judo mats to the basement doors, unlatched the chain and opened the left door.
 

A gust of cold wind preceded Zeph as he slipped his bulk inside and closed the door behind him. “You was still in bed, bredda?”

Bram nodded. “What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty.” The wooden chest by the doors groaned under Zeph’s weight as he sat down to remove his shoes. “You no have a class?”

“I can skip aikido once in a while.” Bram walked back to his bed. “Coffee?”

“Chai, please.” The glass beads in his dreadlocks clicked together as Zeph followed him. “Not them tar one.”

Bram filled his electric kettle and made tea. He could hear the Rastafarian grab a pillow, sit down on the mats and rummage through his pockets for his reefer tin. The strong smell of marihuana filled his nose as Zeph lit up.

“You interested inna gig, bredda?”

“Depends. Studio or tour?”

“Studio,” Zeph replied. “Tim Underwater cutting an album with Mobley tracks.”

“Like he did with that Pettiford record?”

“Exactly. Tim want talk to you. He’s seen you play, he like your sound.” Zeph’s voice dropped. “You sound hesitate, bredda. You kept mahn now?”

Bram grinned. “A kept man?”

“Katla provide for you, no?”

“She pays me when I help her, Zeph. And she doesn’t pay shabbily neither, but I’m not a ‘kept man’.”

“So you want in on them gig?”

“Sure. I wouldn’t want to become a kept man.”

The dumbwaiter in the corner pinged and Bram fetched the tray, placing it in on the mats by the bed. “So when’s the recording?”

“Tim say, a month. He ask you meet him this week. Jam and see if it work out.”

“What’s his number?”

Zeph recited the number slowly and Bram tapped it out on his leg. “I’ll give him a call. Did he tell you what tracks he wanted? Soul Station? Earlier work?”

“I think different times. Some old, some not so old.”

“Well, there’s not much Mobley I can’t play.”

“Exactly, bredda. That what I tell him.”

“Any other guys in the running?”

“No think so.”

They sipped their tea in silence for a while. Bram put down his cup. “About Katla…”
 

“I want help, that all,” Zeph said. “She no need to pay me.”

“That’s up to her. I don’t think you should do it, though.”

“Help her?”

“You can help her, just don’t go with her on her expeditions.”

“She no put me in danger, bredda.”

“Not deliberately, no, but that doesn’t mean you won’t be in danger.” Bram shook his head. “You can take care of yourself, I know you can. But Katla…”

“You no think she can take care herself?”

“She might think so, but she got shot. And no matter what she says about how that was a mistake, I wouldn’t want to be around people who might be packing guns.”

Zeph was silent. Bram poured himself another cup of tea.

“You doubt her? You think she lie about getting shot be a mistake?”

“I know the shooter made a mistake. I know he regretted it. That doesn’t change the fact that Katla was hurt. Hurt bad. And she could’ve died, so she was lucky.”

“I think I can assess risk.”

“Funny, that’s exactly the same thing Katla said when I confronted her about getting shot. And if she has trouble assessing her own risks, I doubt if she’ll be able to assess the risks she lets you take.”

“I grow up in Tivoli Gardens, bredda. I think I can assess risk.”

“I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself. Just promise me you won’t try to impress her.”

“I&I stay with Zodiac, bredda, no worry. Where she now?”

“No idea, she was meeting someone for lunch.”

Still amazed that Katla had so readily accepted her lunch invitation, Anouk looked at the kitchen clock for the fourth time in five minutes. Katla didn’t strike her as the type of person to be late, but then, she didn’t know that much about her.
 

Anouk stepped back and studied the lunch spread, mentally checking her list. Ciabatta, warm from the oven. Vegetarian salad, with a separate plate of smoked salmon and smoked chicken. Another plate with cold cuts and slices of cheese. Tea pot rinsed and ready for boiling water. Percolator on the stove, filled with water and coffee…

Newk and Baaba sat outside on the kitchen window sill, disgruntled at being banned from the kitchen, but Anouk didn’t know how Katla would react to the cats. And their tendency to steal food at every opportunity. Better to leave them outside for the time being.

She sighed. Maybe she should’ve suggested lunch at a café instead. Too late now. The memory of Katla’s predatory gaze gliding over her skin brought back the goose bumps. Anouk rubbed her arms. Bram became reticent whenever Anouk breached the topic of his mysterious new girlfriend. And Zeph described Katla as ordinary-looking.
 

Ordinary…

Although Katla did her utmost to appear inconspicuous, only casual observers would overlook those vibrant eyes and that cruel mouth. Like one of those Gustav Klimt women—coolly observant, detached and slightly hostile. The thought sent shivers through her bruised spine.

Five minutes past one.

Well, either Katla wasn’t punctual, or she thought being on time was impolite.

She felt a bit queasy and looked out the kitchen window. Newk and Baaba pawed at the smooth glass and meowed, though the drizzling rain didn’t touch the window sill.

She needed to pee.

She looked at the clock. Six past one.

Anouk hurried down the hallway to the toilet, pulled up her dress and sat down.
 

The doorbell rang.

Fuckfuckfuck
.
 

The urge to pee was unstoppable. She wadded up toilet paper while she urinated.

The bell rang again.

Fuuuuuuuck. Pleasepleaseplease. Don’t be impatient.

Quickly she wiped herself, flushed the toilet, and was about to storm to the front door when she realised that she had not washed her hands. The bell rang for a third time as she rinsed her hands and took the towel with her to the front door.

Katla combed her fingers through her tousled hair, probably from the motorcycle helmet in her hand. Behind her, a battered XT225 motorcycle was parked on the sidewalk. Her bright blue eyes glittered with amusement, as if she could guess why Anouk was late to the door.

“Hallo.”

“Let me take that.” Anouk took her helmet and stepped back into the hallway. “Please come in.”

Katla entered in an aura of cold damp air and wet leather, closed the door behind her with one hand and touched Anouk’s shoulder with her other hand as she kissed her softly on both cheeks. Flustered Anouk felt the blood rise to her face, but Katla didn’t notice and strolled down the hallway to the kitchen.
 

“Smells good. Did you bake bread?”

“Ciabatta,” Anouk replied, grateful the hallway was dimly lit. She returned the towel to the toilet and followed Katla to the kitchen, where she put her helmet down on a chair.

“What would you like to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee would be great.”

Katla shrugged out of her jacket and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair. Underneath she wore a maroon blouse from rough silk, with cut-outs that left her muscular shoulders bare.
 

Katla turned to the window and finger-waved at Newk and Baaba. “Your cats don’t look happy.”

Anouk busied herself at the stove, hoping the warmth of her oven would provide an alibi for her flushed cheeks.
 

“They’d eat our lunch if they have half a chance, so I opted to leave them outside. At least until you arrived. You mind if I let them in again?”

“Not at all.” Katla grinned. “I’m prepared to fight any cat for my lunch.”

Newk and Baaba stormed inside and wrapped themselves around her long leather-clad legs. While Katla reached down to stroke their fur, Anouk stole a glance into her blouse, which was showing just a hint of cleavage. Her small high breasts were cupped in a frilly Chantelle bra, not a Marlies Dekkers as she had expected. Katla straightened and Anouk turned back to the stove to grab the percolator. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Black. Thanks.” Katla took a sip from the hot coffee. “Lovely cats. Siamese?”

“Yes. You have cats?”

“No cats. A macaw.”

“Ah, yes, Zeph told me.”

Katla’s striking blue eyes fixed on her. “Zeph told you?”

Shit
.
 

“He takes care of my cats when I’m away.” Anouk smiled back uncertainly. “He told me he’d taken care of your macaw, when you were, you know, hurt.”

“Hurt. What a wonderful euphemism.” Katla looked around the table. “This salad is vegetarian?”

“I put the salmon and the chicken separate, so you could choose.”

“That’s considerate.” She took one-third of the salad and added salmon. “I’m not vegetarian, though. In fact, I’m mostly carnivore. You made this dressing yourself?”

Anouk nodded.

“You’re not shy, are you?” Katla tilted her head. “Or are you afraid of making another faux pas?”

“You make me nervous.”

“Because I got hurt?”

If that’s what you’d like to think.
Anouk shrugged. “Well, yes.”

“I rarely get hurt.” Katla rubbed her thigh. “Last time was a mistake.”

“What you might call ‘an occupational hazard’?”

“No. What you might call ‘a mistake’. And the matter was rectified.”

“Rectified?”

“The person who hurt me is no longer in a position to hurt anyone.” Katla gave her a predatory smile. “Retired, you might say.”

“But you walk with a limp.”

“Which is better than not walking at all.”

“Mistake or not, if you’d had another job, you wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“Wishful thinking is an exercise in futility.” Katla spooned some salad in her mouth and chewed enthusiastically. “You’re not worried about me, are you?”

“I’m concerned about Bram. If you can get hurt, so can he. By association.”

“How close would this association have to be, to become perilous?”

“I don’t know. That’s what worries me.”

“Well, don’t worry. I don’t take Bram to work.”

Anouk tilted her head. “What is your work?”

“I’m a businesswoman.”

“You’re not an ordinary businesswoman. Ordinary businesswomen don’t tend to get… hurt.”

“You can say the word. Shot. I got shot.”

“Why did you get shot?”

“Because someone made a mistake. Like I said before, I rarely get injured on the job.”

Anouk chewed slowly. “So what is it that you do? Exactly?”

“I’m a corporate troubleshooter.”

“That’s not exactly specific.”

“That’s about as specific as I can be.” Katla made herself a sandwich. “The corporations I work for wouldn’t want me to go into detail to someone without the proper security clearances.”
 

Anouk heaped salad on her plate, adding smoked salmon and dressing.

“Say I’d want to hire you. Hypothetically.”

“If you want to discuss hypotheses, I can give you a theoretical answer.”

“Let’s say, I’m a corporation and I have problems with the competition.”

Katla chewed her sandwich. “You have to be more specific. Security problems? Or is their product commercially more viable?”

“What can you do in that case?”

“If the product is more viable? Shift the balance.”

Anouk tilted her head. “How?”

“By making the competitor’s product less viable.”

“I understand that, but how would you proceed?”

“Clients rarely ask specifics. Results are all that matter.”

“Seriously? Why? Because you do illegal things?”

Katla wiggled her hand. “Not necessarily illegal, but involvement might taint a corporation’s reputation. I rarely report what I do. Or even specify invoices.”

“So you have a free hand?”

“Nobody really wants to know what I do, as long as I get results.”

“How do you get a job like that?”

Katla shrugged. “How did you become a sculptor?”
 

“I always wanted to create, and that’s my medium.”

“You can be creative in more ways than one. I’m creative in finding solutions to other people’s problems.”

“Like opening my door?” Anouk asked. “Without keys?”

Katla gazed at her, her eyes inscrutable. “Bram has a key.”

“You opened the door, not Bram. And I overheard him say you did it quicker than with a key, so I know you didn’t use one.”

“I picked your lock.” Katla shrugged. “So?”

“That’s illegal.”

“Not for me.” Katla fished a wallet from her coat and showed her an ID card. “See?”

“Locksmith?” She studied the card. “I can’t tell if this is real or not.”

“It’ll stand up to official scrutiny.”

Anouk shook her head. “Lock-picking isn’t part of a locksmith’s curriculum.”

Amusement glittered in the cool blue eyes. “How would you know?”

“Because they drill out the lock if you lose your key…” Anouk held up her hand. “Wait, they replace the lock so they can charge more money?”

“Replacing the cylinder also reinforces the client’s false sense of security,” Katla replied. “Makes them think not even a locksmith can pass their locks without power tools.”

“But it’s not more difficult?”

“Depends on the lock.” Katla fished in her jacket again, took out a leather case and opened the flaps to reveal an array of delicate steel instruments that reminded Anouk of dentist equipment. From her bag she took an ordinary portable toolkit with a folding set of pliers and several screwdrivers and placed it next to the opened case with the picks. “These tools open seventy-five percent of all locks. Including yours.”