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“Here.” Cain pushed a double shot in my direction.
I tossed it down, welcoming the burn of the whisky. Every time Esposito went AWOL, shit happened.
“You sure?” I asked.
“A friend in the QCS tipped me off.”
I blinked. “You have a friend in the Quebec City Syndicate? Since when?”
Cain sipped his whiskey. “Not a friend, exactly. Let’s say we have mutual…interests.”
He was avoiding my eyes. What the actual fuck?
“Who?” I asked, temporarily distracted from Esposito and his problems.
“You wouldn’t know her.”
“Her?” I asked neutrally.
“Her name isn’t important. And I promised no one would be able to trace the intel back to her.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “And you trust this ‘friend’? You don’t think she’s feeding you false intel?”
“Why would she lie about this? And it fits. It’s not like Esposito would say no if someone offered him a low-cost loan.”
I nodded. Unfortunately, that was true.
“If your mom knows anything, “ Cain added, “you have to get it out of her. Compel her if you have to. She’s not immune.”
“No.”
“Why the fuck not?”
I put the shot glass down on the bar a little too hard. “Because she’s my goddamn mother.”
Cain’s pale eyes flickered. “She’s a weakness.”
“Maybe, but she wouldn’t know anything anyway. You think Esposito tells her his secrets? The man lies about what he ate for breakfast. She thinks he won big. No, we have to find the sonuvabitch and shake it out of him.”
“I’ll help,” Cain muttered. His expression telegraphed that he’d do more than shake Esposito, too—and this time, I might let him. “He hasn’t come to you for the money?”
“No.” Which, now that I thought about it, was damn strange. “It’s not like him. Why hasn’t he tried to squeeze me for the cash? Especially if they’re leaning on him, because why else would he have gone to ground like this? Plus, I told the PI to put extra men on this and they haven’t uncovered a trace of him.”
“That’s bad.”
“Yeah.” I blew out a breath. “Up until now, I figured he’d turn up sooner or later. He always has before.”
Cain finished his whiskey and set it on the bar next to mine. “It’s time to tell Brien.”
“Fine,” I snapped. “I’ll talk to him tonight, all right?”
My old friend looked me over, his lean body tense, his fingers tapping on the bar’s polished surface. “You’re hungry. When did you last drink fresh blood?”
“I don’t know. When I was in New York, I guess.”
“That was what—eleven, twelve days ago?”
“Two weeks,” I muttered. “So?”
