Boston's Man-Eater

III

Surprised? No. I was everything there was. Stunned, stupefied, dazed, benumbed.

She had a folder in hand, and her startling blue eyes stared at me with dispassion. Sleek blond hair styled to perfection as it cascaded to shoulders that bared flawless, fair skin.

I instinctively lowered my eyes to the breasts that were cupped in a delicate bra—lace appliqued across a chest that wore nothing else.

I am very much serious about this detail, but I had not meant to look.

"Hello, Miss Salander—I'm Kyle Anthony from the Boston Independent."

She took her time to observe me from toe to head. I had to hold my breath.

"Hello, Kyle," a deep, feminine voice greeted—distinguished British accent and all.

"May I?"

"Sit," she ordered, and carefully reviewed a sketch from her folder.

Did I mention that she smells so good?

I don't believe that I had ever felt anything like a dizziness progressing from such hypnotic scents.

Is it YvesSaintLaurent? Givenchy?

"I just have a few questions concerning the Lady in Red."

Mistaking that my voice was not loud enough to have been heard within ear-shot, I realized her disinterest, used it to cleanse my foolishness, and saw the shiny shield of ignorance that blinded my pride.

As the quietude trickled in by the second, a million fears crammed into my mind. I resented it.

Why was I petrified of her? She hadn't given me a reason to be.

"I'm pretty sure you know about her," I continued.

"Very unimaginative name," she murmured monotonously, and slowly flipped over a page.

I called it.

"Yes, but it still is the official one."

"Why?"

"A question directed to the police department," I answered, and she looked at me—a gaze that gauged if I was worthy of an answer.

"Everyone is inevitably dressed in a certain color or shade, and outside you'll find 150+ women dressed in red—what would be the significance of it?"

"It's somewhat catchy," I defended, despite inwardly agreeing to her perspective.

"It's boring. I presume that makes me the lady in black, and you, the gentleman in..." she paused, not attempting to hide her distaste, "...a grotesque brown."

I perched my glasses up the bridge of my nose, a habit I'd engrossed whenever I took a hit. She was not the first rude person I'd encountered, neither was Denise, nor Naomi.

"I noticed there are no male employees here at the Salander House."

She pivoted her elbows, laced her fingers, and positioned her chin over them.

"Did you come all the way here to disturb me and discuss about my workforce?"

"No ma'am—"

"Tess," she interjected sharply, and I cleared my throat.

"Tess. It was a simple observation. May I ask why?"

"Why?" She repeated, "Because, they're predatorial creatures—they want to act like they belong in a cage at the zoo, so I sent some behind bars, and others elsewhere."