Or was it a different one? Lilly wasn’t sure. They all looked alike. On any given workday, thousands of limos must have cruised down broadway in the financial district. That call from her source was making her paranoid. Or maybe she was just more alert. No, this was definitely paranoia. Damn you, Patrick. She shook off that thought. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Not everything her source had told her could be true. Not all the blame could be laid on Patrick Lloyd. Even though his name was really Peter Mandretti. And his father was in jail for murdering Gerry Collins. And he went to see Manu Robledo without any help from her. “You’ve been played,” her source had told her. “First by Gerry Collins, then, even worse, by Patrick Lloyd.” A pigeon waddled past her on the sidewalk. Lilly thought of its cousin in Singapore—the seagull that had swooped down from the sky and dropped a direct hit on Patrick’s head.
