Chapter 7
An hour and a half later, we left the hotel, heading down the stairwell and out the back entrance.
While we didn’t need to dress up to go to a comedy club, it made sense that we would have made some effort to clean up if we were really a couple getting away from their kids.
James only had T-shirts and jeans, though, and the nicest outfit I had was a pair of clean jeans and a light blue, long-sleeve, button-down shirt.
We were both wearing jackets to conceal the weapons we carried.
Once we were several hundred yards from the hotel, James fell into step beside me, his freshly shaven jaw catching my attention.
It had taken everything in me not to reach out and touch his smooth cheeks earlier.
“Tell me about this bartender,” he said.
I cast a quick glance toward him, then turned back to the sidewalk. “He works at the Brass Magnolia. Sometimes he hears things. Illegal things.”
“How does he get this information?”
“Does it really matter?” I scoffed.
“How do you know it’s trustworthy?”
“Because he’s given me information before. It’s always turned out to be true.”
“Why would he talk to you?”
I shot him a dark look. “When you say ‘you’ do you mean me or do you mean me as a cop?”
“The latter.”
I shrugged. “He has his reasons.”
“You know the reasons and you’re not going to tell me?” The challenge in his voice was clear.
“I don’t see why you need to know,” I countered with plenty of attitude. “I’m not going to tell you who he is, so what does it matter?”
He came to a halt. “You don’t trust me.”
I stopped and turned back, dragging a hand over my head. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, James. I have to protect my source.”
“You have to protect him from me.”
I shook my head in frustration. “That’s not it at all. When he started giving me information, I had to swear to him I wouldn’t tell a soul anything about him. Even then, he only gave me little pieces at first. Until he decided he could really trust me.”
“You didn’t even tell Limp Dick?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not even Keith. I promised my source I wouldn’t tell a soul, and I meant it.” I stepped closer and pressed a hand to his chest. “And unfortunately, that includes you.”
His jaw hardened.
But to my surprise, he didn’t argue. “You’re going to let it go that easily?”
“This isn’t easy.” He exhaled through his nose. “But I have to respect your promises.” He snorted. “Don’t look so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised.” The lie came too easily. “Okay, I’m a little surprised. I thought I’d have to fight you on it.”
“I have plenty of my own secrets, and you’ve respected my need to keep them. The least I can do is respect yours.”
“Thank you.”
He started to say something, then stopped, then tried again. “Maybe one day we won’t have as many secrets between us.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “You’re going to tell me what alphabet agency you’re working for?”
“If I were working for a federal agency,” he said mildly, “at some point in the future, I’d tell you.”
I wasn’t sure I believed him. Or maybe I wasn’t ready to deal with what that if implied. I lifted a brow. “I’m still not telling you the name of my source.”
He laughed, an honest-to-God laugh that caught me off guard. “And as I said before, I respect your promises.”
“Thanks, but let’s get going because I’d like to hit up my other two sources tonight.”
We continued down the sidewalk, and I squashed the impulse to warn him that he was still recovering and that he needed to tell me if all this walking became too much. I knew he’d be lying on the ground, bleeding from his ears, before he’d admit anything was wrong.
Which meant I had to keep an eye on him.
We walked several more blocks, side by side, our fingers brushing every so often. The urge to reach out and take his hand was surprisingly strong, but I resisted. For one thing, we weren’t on a date. For another, I suspected neither of us were hand-holders.
Funny, how a week with James had me questioning that.
When we approached the Brass Magnolia, James scanned the exterior of the brick building, then turned to me. “This isn’t what I was expecting.”
“You thought it would be a dive bar?”
“Yeah,” he conceded. “This place looks a little high-class for an informant.”
“You’d be surprised.” I glanced up and down the street. “You’ll need to stay out here.”
His eyes darkened. “Like hell.”
“James,” I said in a warning tone, “if he sees you walk in with me, he won’t talk. In fact, I suspect he’d never talk to me again.”
“We shouldn’t be separated.”
“I’ll be fine, but if I’m not out in five minutes, text me. And if I don’t respond, then you can come in.”
He pulled out his phone and started a timer. “I’m holding you to that.”
Several seconds had already counted down.
I almost protested but decided it wasn’t worth it and went inside.
The bar had once been a bookstore with rich wood paneling and old-school trim, and the current owner had used that to his advantage.
The Brass Magnolia had a private-club feel without the rich boys wearing blazers and ascots.
Booths lined the walls, and tall-backed leather barstools ran along the counter.
The lighting was dim, but not so dark you couldn’t see—just enough to make everything feel expensive.
I’d spent plenty of time here over the three years since it had opened.
Nearly every table was full, not that I was surprised. The place had always been popular. I scanned the bar, looking for my source.
Relief washed through me when I spotted Bobby behind the counter, working a cocktail shaker.
An empty barstool sat several feet away from him, so I slid onto it.
“Be with you in a minute,” he called, pouring the cocktail into a glass.
I didn’t respond. I was too busy fighting the sudden, sharp desire to order a whiskey.
My mouth watered at the thought of the warm burn it would give me as I swallowed the first sip. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that sitting in a bar would tempt me? Had it occurred to James? Was that the real reason he’d wanted to come in with me?
I quickly dismissed the thought. He mostly wanted to make sure I was safe. I had to grudgingly admit that if the roles were reversed, I’d want to do the same.
Like any good partner would. There was no reason to read anything more into it. On either side.
A few minutes later, Bobby walked over and stopped in front of me, his face going blank the second he recognized me.
I gave him a warm smile. “Hey. Long time no see.”
I’d met Bobby about five years ago while working a homicide case. He’d witnessed a murder, but he’d refused to testify at the trial. Keith had tried to pressure him, but we’d had two other witnesses, so I’d convinced him to let it go. Keith had grudgingly dropped it and moved on.
But I hadn’t forgotten.
Unlike Keith, I hadn’t wanted to pressure Bobby to testify. I was more interested in why he’d refused.
He’d been working at a different bar back then, and I’d stopped by midafternoon on a weekday and seated myself at the counter.
The place was mostly empty, so it only took Bobby a few seconds to notice me.
And even fewer to recognize me. His face had flushed with anger and he shouted, “Can’t you people take no for an answer? ”
I’d quickly assured him I wasn’t there to try to change his mind. In fact, I was there to make sure he was okay.
His face had paled and he’d looked like he was about to pass out.
“Did someone threaten you, Bobby?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“When people don’t want to testify on a case, it’s either because they don’t want the hassle or they’re scared.”
Keith had presumed Bobby was an asshole who couldn’t be bothered to do his civic duty, and I’d understood why. Bobby was in his early twenties with visible tattoos, six-foot-two, and around two-twenty. He looked like he should be the intimidator, not the intimidated.
But people weren’t always scared just for themselves.
“You here to psychoanalyze me?” he’d asked, a vein bulging on his forehead.
“No,” I’d assured him. “Like I said, I’m here to make sure you’re okay.”
“Why would you care?” he’d demanded, his anger rising.
“Because I became a cop to help people. That means it’s my job to care.”
“Tell that to the cop that arrested my little sister,” he’d said in disgust.
It took some coaxing, but he’d finally told me his sister had been arrested for possession of pot.
Contempt had covered his face. “It wasn’t hers.
” He’d shook his head. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinkin’—That’s what they all say—but it really wasn’t.
It was her so-called friend Alyssa’s. The cops showed up at a park where a bunch of teenagers were partying.
My just-turned-eighteen-year-old sister had been drinking, and she panicked.
She knew our parents would lose their minds if she got arrested for underage drinking.
” He had exhaled hard, like the memory still had him by the throat.
“She had a bottle of vodka in her backpack, and she was stupid enough to think the cops wouldn’t see her pick it up and toss it into the woods.
Only she was also trying to be a good friend, so she tossed Alyssa’s too. ”
“And Alyssa’s backpack had the pot,” I’d finished.
“Yep,” he’d said bitterly. “But the police didn’t care. They saw her touch it, so she got charged with a felony. It didn’t matter who it really belonged to. They just wanted an arrest.”
“They charged her with a felony? It should have been a misdemeanor.”
“And it would’ve been,” he’d snapped, “if Alyssa didn’t have a big bag of pot and a set of scales in her backpack.”
I had grimaced at that news. “They charged her with intent to sell. I’m sorry.”