Chapter 19
Jack Finnegan was flirting with her. She was now one hundred percent sure of it. He was making personal comments that had nothing to do with their investigation. He was giving her those lethal little smiles that made her head go woozy.
Should she tell him that she wasn’t used to flirtation?
When she was attracted to a man, she generally came out and told him so.
If he felt the same, they’d take things further.
Maybe a drink, a meal, then some kissing to see if the attraction extended to sexual chemistry.
Bing bang boom. Her approach was efficient and entirely satisfactory to both parties.
This was something completely different, and it felt like quicksand to her.
Like she was walking through new terrain where she didn’t understand the rules.
Did it have gravity? Did it obey the laws of physics?
The only way to find out was to keep exploring.
The good thing was that Jack was there too, and he made her feel so… good. Floaty and happy and light.
And that was before the margaritas.
They settled on a little basement tavern that had to be entered via a short flight of stairs. She felt Jack’s hand hovering at the small of her back as they descended. Maybe he was still worried about the lingering effects of the Bloodshot Eyeball shooting.
Maybe she should be worried about that. That would explain everything, wouldn’t it, if this giddy feeling was a result of hitting her head on the café floor?
But no…Tina insisted on being honest with herself, and the truth was that Jack had this effect on her all on his own. Residual effects from a head injury had nothing to do with it.
The tavern felt like a throwback to Olde English times, with its mahogany tabletops and cracked burgundy upholstery.
The light came from sconces set in brickwork walls as well as mini oil lanterns set on the tables.
They had to fetch their own drinks from the bar; it was too early for waitress service, explained the bartender, who was also the owner.
He was a burly man with long sideburns and a mustache that curled up at the ends, as if he too had been transported from another time.
Jack chatted with him for a while as he fetched their margaritas. He had a knack for talking to strangers, which she envied slightly. She talked to strangers all the time, of course, but from behind the shield of her badge. Friendly chitchat was a different story.
“He tried to talk me into a dry sherry,” Jack said as he eased into the booth opposite her with their drinks. “He’s a liquor snob and doesn’t think much of the margarita.”
She touched her tongue to the salt on the rim. “Is that what you were talking to him about?”
“Actually, I got some information from him.” His gray eyes looked silver in the light from the lantern. “He says we should stay at the Spotted Owl, which is about a block away. He even called them up and reserved a room for us.”
“The perks of being a celebrity?” The first sip of tequila shot into her bloodstream.
“Nah, he didn’t recognize me. I can always tell. It’s the perks of being friendly, that’s all, and asking for advice. People love to give advice.”
“I’m not friendly,” she stated. Good lord, already tipsy. Maybe that bonk on her head had affected her tolerance level. “People are always telling me to smile. It’s irritating.”
“You should only smile if you want to.”
“Exactly.” She lifted her glass and clinked it against his.
“In my mind, it’s kind of sexist. Do people tell men to smile?
Seems to me it’s just women who get that comment.
Like we’re always supposed to be happy and smiling, no matter what’s going on.
Honestly, that’s one great thing about being a detective.
I’m investigating fucking crimes. It would be weird if I was smiling all the time. ”
“Damn right. Have you noticed that Denver Black almost never smiles?”
“Of course, but that’s partly because of his scar.”
“It has nothing to do with his scar. He’s just not a smiler.”
“But you are.” He had an incredible smile, one that turned her knees to Jell-O.
“I can be. Not always. It depends on who I’m with.”
And there he went with the flirting again. That smoldering look from those gray eyes, the promise of so much fun, so much pleasure…
“Well, don’t waste your smiles on me,” she said irritably. It bothered her that he had such an effect on her. “Save them for someone who isn’t on a case.”
If anything, his smile widened, grew even more amused. “I’ve been thinking about the case. Not Jessie’s, but the Night Light murder.”
“What about it?”
“That episode we just talked about, with the beauty queen. The killer turned out to be her husband eliminating anyone causing trouble for her. The same thing could have happened on Sea Smoke Island. What if Kate’s ex came to the island and tried to win her back by getting rid of the man harassing her? ”
She gazed at him over the rim of her margarita glass. The theory had merit. “We know he has psychological issues.”
“Exactly. Untreated paranoid schizophrenia doesn’t exactly leave a person balanced and able to deal with tough situations.”
He ran his thumb across the base of his margarita glass, a gesture she found oddly hypnotic.
“Well, whether he was the Night Light killer or not, he definitely terrorized his own family. No wonder Adam Johnson knows all about trauma. He experienced it himself from his earliest days. The question is whether he’s processed it or not. Lingering trauma can surface in all kinds of ways.”
His face tightened with anxiety.
“Hey, hey, don’t jump to any conclusions yet.” She knew exactly what he was picturing—his sister in the hands of someone unpredictable and dangerous. “From everything we’ve heard, it’s a topic he’s very familiar with.”
“Yeah, but here’s what scares me. Some people go into therapy and learn nothing except how to use the lingo to manipulate. He’s already caused a lot of harm. He dumped Marigold in a very humiliating way.”
“If that’s the worst he’s done, we can relax. Everyone gets dumped at some point. I’ve been dumped three-point-five times.”
“Three point five?”
“The fourth time, we broke up with each other simultaneously. It was almost eerie, how in sync we were. Almost made me reconsider.”
Why was he laughing? He always seemed to find her so funny. Was that good or bad?
“You’re laughing with me, not at me, right?” she asked, double-checking to make sure.
“I don’t even know. You just make me laugh, sorry. Hope it doesn’t bother you.”
“Should it?”
“Absolutely not. It takes nothing away from the vast respect I have for your abilities. Hell, if gunfire broke out right now, I wouldn’t even be worried. You’d handle it.”
Her eyebrows drew together as she contemplated that absurd level of confidence in her talents. “I’m not Neo, I can’t stop bullets. If gunfire broke out, you know what to do. Hit the floor. Dive behind something that serves as a shield. Think about season five, episode eight. Remember when—”
“The coffee delivery guy turned out to be a Russian assassin? Oh yeah.” He rubbed his elbow in rueful memory. “No stunt double for that one. He was out sick. We did five takes of that damn scene.”
“Good,” she said seriously. “Then you’ll have muscle memory working for you.”
He threw his head back in a laugh. “I feel like we’re getting off track here. My point was that I can laugh with you or at you because I find you funny, but I still respect you completely. Fair?”
“Fair.” She sipped her margarita, thinking it over. “But maybe you should withhold your judgement on my abilities until we actually locate Adam/Seth/Lloyd.”
He considered that, then nodded. “That’s fair, too. But just to be clear, I’m not putting it all on you. It’s my job to find my sister. You’re being kind enough to help me on your hard-earned vacation time.”
Maybe it was the tequila she’d already sipped, but she appreciated that statement.
She always put all of herself into an investigation, and if it didn’t go well, she beat herself up.
The fact that he was explicitly telling her it wasn’t all her responsibility made something inside her ease.
That relentless pressure she put on herself—possibly inherited from her parents’ drive to succeed in a new world—was so constant that she wasn’t even aware of it.
Until a moment like now, with a pleasant buzz on, and her longtime TV crush sitting across from her. A crush who’d just told her that she wasn’t on her own in this.
“You’re really attractive.” The words slid out of her as if they were sledding on frozen tequila, which they were.
“Thanks.” His eyes gleamed at her. “Glad you think so.”
“I mean, it’s not my opinion. It’s just fact. You’re objectively attractive.”
“Then what’s your opinion?”
“What? I just said you’re attractive.” He was really milking this now.
“You said it was a fact.” He jabbed a finger toward her. “But I don’t care about facts. I want to know your opinion.”
“My opinion is that it’s a fact that you’re attractive.”
Another of those full-throated laughs of his sent shivers along her skin. “In other words, you find me attractive.”
She scowled at him, simultaneously regretting the margarita and taking another sip of it. “Isn’t that the definition of attractive?”
“You’re so squirrely, damn. I find you attractive. There, see how I did that? Not hard at all.”
She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again. He found her attractive? That was why he was flirting with her, not because he was a Hollywood actor to whom flirting was second nature?
“Why?” she said finally, almost in disbelief. “I mean, I know I’m pretty hot, for a police officer, but probably not for an actress or whoever you usually…” She shrugged, not particularly anxious to finish that thought.
“There is no usually. And you’re pretty hot in any context, to my mind. Look at you. Gorgeous, brilliant, funny as hell. I can’t wait to get your clothes off.”
“You…what…what?” she spluttered, her thoughts flying every which way like startled pigeons.
“You heard me.” His grin could have lit up a fire station. “Eventually. When the time is right.”
Oh man. Talk about a tease. “How will we know when the time is right?” Her voice sounded so wobbly that she had to steady her nerves with another dose of her margarita. Was this number two or number three? She’d lost track somewhere in there.
“Good question. I guess we’ll have to stay tuned. Just like the end of a two-parter.”
“I hate the two-parters,” she said through gritted teeth. “I need resolution, not a cliff-hanger.”
“Oh, but doesn’t hanging on that cliff make the resolution all the more satisfying?”
His sexy growl was driving her nuts. “I hate you.”
“Come on now. How can you hate a man who thinks you’re the bomb diggity?”
She was about to burst into laughter at his use of a phrase right out of a 1990s tween translator’s handbook, when he suddenly sat up, arrested.
“Hang on,” he said slowly.
“What?” She shook her head to disperse the margarita buzz. It didn’t entirely work.
“Bomb diggity.”
She waited patiently as he worked it out in his head.
“Jessie used that term in one of her texts about Seth Baker. I thought it was odd because she’s never used it before and it’s not her style at all. She’s more of a vintage girl if anything. She might say, ‘he’s the bee’s knees’ or the ‘cherry on my sundae.’”
“Okay, so maybe she learned a new term.”
“Maybe. But what if she was trying to send me a message? If he was monitoring her texts and she had to be careful how she phrased things, she might have chosen it deliberately.”
Tina’s head was slowly clearing as she brought her thoughts into better focus. “If that’s the case, what do you think her message was? There’s a bomb somewhere? If so, we need to alert—”
“No.” He cut her off before she could go too far down that path. “I think she wants me to dig.”
“You are digging. We’re digging.” She waved her hand to indicate the entire journey that had brought them to this intimate dark basement tavern. “That’s what we’re doing here.”
“Literally. She buried something for me to find.”
That sounded like a massive stretch to her. “Couldn’t she just have said ‘I dig this guy?’”
“She did. Twice. Then she added the bomb diggity. That’s why I think ‘dig’ is the key word. And the reason I know it’s literal is that we used to love digging at our grandparents’ house. My granny grew carrots and potatoes, and she’d let us dig them up like buried treasure.”
“Should we go back to the island and dig up the garden?”
“Yes. But not now,” he added quickly. Then he thought about it further. “Maybe we should ask someone, maybe Luke, to dig around in the dirt.”
“I’ll ask Marigold,” she decided. “She’s been wanting to help.”