CIA agent, Macy Wells, is assigned to an investigation of a suspected serial killer, David Lorel. As she's trying to find evidence to throw him in jail for life, she might just also fall in love with him. She will either find the evidence to prove his innocence, or find out she might just be involved in a fatal attraction.
I sipped my cinnamon sprinkled latte, trying to act casual as I quickly perched my morning newspaper on the table to cover my face. I slowly crinkled back the corner of the page, peering at the cafe door. Nothing yet. Just the same old caffeine zombies that walked in here every morning. However, one of them was missing. He walked in here every weekday morning at exactly 7:30 A.M. with heavily-lined bags forming under his perfect, crystal blue eyes. He'd usually have something like a black button down shirt piled nicely on top of light blue boot cut jeans, with wavy brown hair slicked back framing his square bone structure. This man was without a doubt stunning, but he was also suspected of being a serial killer, and that's exactly why I was here.
Finally the bells on the cafe door chimed, and my suspect sauntered into his morning indulgence. I folded the edge of my paper back, and focused in on him.
"Got a view on the suspect," I whispered to the microphone hidden in the collar of my shirt.
"What's he doing, Macy?" an ear bud replied.
"He's getting in line for coffee like he has been doing every morning, what do you think he's doing? Having a tea party?"
"No need for sarcasm, agent, just report any suspicious behavior."
I rolled my eyes, "Oh no, something is about to go down."
"What?" the voice replied in anticipation.
"He ordered two shots of creme this time instead of his usual one. He's definitely on a kill-streak, agent Camille."
When Camille didn't reply, I lowered my shirt collar and folded the newspaper on my table. I pushed my chair in and proceeded my way to the counter, slicing my way in front of my suspect. He eyed me suspiciously, a comment toward my rude behavior forming on his lips.
"Excuse me, can I have a refill?" I asked my waiter, placing change into his hand, "I had a regular latte with two shots of creme. Thanks,"
"You have good taste," my suspect's voice rang from behind me.
"What can I say, great minds think alike."
A flawless crooked smile appeared on his face, and he lowered his gaze back to the counter.
"Mister... David Lorel? Regular latte with two shots of creme," the waiter whaled through the audible chatter of the people in line.
"That'd be me," my suspect walked around me and grabbed the red cup from the waiter's hand, "Thank you, sir. Have a nice day."
On his way out the door, I noticed him look me up and down from the corner of my eye, and I knew now that next time it'd be safe to approach him.
"Camille?" I asked into my shirt collar.
"Macy, I swear if this is another joke you'll be back to cleaning tables in no time," Camille hollered back at me.
"No, not this time. But I do have the name of our suspect. A mister David Lorel."
"It's about damn time agent."