First Time Killer by Alan Orloff, Zak Allen Page A

How quickly they became independent.
    Rick finished his brownie and wiped his mouth with a napkin. As he was stuffing the trash back into the Mrs. Fields bag, a man stepped up to his bench and jutted his chin at the empty space next to Rick. “Mind if I sit?”
    Rick slid over to make more room. “Sure. Have a seat.”
    The man nodded and sat. He carried a camouflage jacket and wore a red Nationals cap with a white W inscribed on the front. A small scar began over his left eye, zigzagged up his forehead, and disappeared under the cap. “Busy day here at the mall.”
    “Sure is,” Rick said.
    The man gazed at the children playing. “Love watching the kids have fun. Makes me wish I was a kid again.”
    “I know what you mean. They have lots of energy.” Rick eyed his new friend. Mid-twenties, rugged. Something about him seemed familiar. Maybe his speech cadence.
    The guy stuck out his hand. “Name’s Mike.”
    Rick shook his hand. It was unnaturally warm and moist, and Mike held on a fraction of a second too long. Rick pulled his hand away.
    “Which one’s yours?” Mike asked.
    Rick hesitated, then pointed to a pack of kids crawling around a pretend cockpit. “Over there. Blond.”
    “Oh. In the blue shirt?”
    Rick shifted on the bench. Livvy had on a blue sweatshirt. But how did he pick her out of the group? There were several other towheaded kids. Lucky guess? “Yeah, that’s right.”
    “Cute kid. Real cute.” Mike cleared his throat, and the wet, gargling sound unnerved Rick. “You must be real proud.”
    “She’s a great kid, all right,” Rick said. “And yours is?”
    Next to him, Mike leaned back and stretched his legs out. Dirty jeans and work boots. “Don’t have any kids. Not even married.” He paused. “Just taking a break. Watching these kids cheers me up.”
    Rick glanced at his watch. Maybe they should get going.
    “What do you do for a living, don’t mind me asking?” Mike extended one arm along the back of the bench, fingers almost touching Rick’s shoulder.
    “I’m in media.” On the other side of the plastic runway bisecting the “airport,” Rick spotted Livvy playing follow-the-leader with two other children. Livvy was the leader.
    “Media? Hell, media’s a great business to be in.” Mike chuckled. “I love media.” A weird grin settled on his face.
    Rick’s creep detector powered up.
    “So, what media are you in?” Mike asked. “Radio?”
    “Actually, yes.”
    “I love radio. You ever listen to the Afternoon Circus ?” Mike cocked his head at Rick. Waiting for an answer.
    “Yeah, I’ve heard it. Listen, I think I need to be going.”
    “That’s too bad. Looks like your daughter is having a good time.”
    Rick stood. “We’ve got a lot to do. Nice talking with you.”
    “Ditto. Give Livvy my best, will you?”
    Rick nodded and headed for Livvy, who had migrated to the front of the play area, near the control tower. After five steps, he froze. He’d never mentioned Livvy’s name to Mike. Rick whirled around, heart beating wildly.
    Mike was gone.

C HAPTER 11
    R ICK NURSED HIS beer, waiting for Winn to return from the can. He’d been to the Belly Up dozens of times, but never really examined his surroundings. The Belly Up was a drinking establishment in transition. Had been since he first came years ago. When the owner, Sammy Volusio, bought the bar, his ex-wife had given him shit. Told him he’d be bankrupt in two months. Sammy wouldn’t be deterred. Named the place Belly Up as a fuck-you to his ex and forged ahead, starting ambitious renovations. Once Sammy got a good look at the cash flow, though, he pulled the plug on the construction. Five years later, the only subsequent “renovation” had been to the sign outside. Sammy had squeezed the words, “To The” between “Belly Up” and “Bar.”
    The restaurant looked like it had been designed by an interior decorator with a split personality. A seriously disturbed decorator. The left half was