Page 29 of Property of Whiskey

No patrol markings. No uniform. She’s standing near the county records entrance in jeans, boots, and a fitted black jacket, her long blonde hair hanging loose down her back instead of tied up like it was at Heck’s Kitchen.

The man she’s questioning is not nearly her height and looks nervous as hell. His shoulders are drawn up, one hand keeps rubbing the side of his neck, and every few seconds he checks the street like he’s waiting for somebody to catch him talking.

I cross before either of them notices me.

He sees my cut first. His face loses all color.

Twila turns and narrows her eyes. “Well, hell. If it isn’t Hell, Kentucky’s favorite criminal accountant.”

“Deputy.”

“I’m off duty.”

“Still nosy.”

“Still ugly.”

I look her over slowly enough to make the point.

“Liar.”

Her mouth tightens.

The man takes advantage of the distraction. “I should get back.”

Twila turns toward him. “I wasn’t finished.”

“I was.” He gets to his car fast, fumbles once with the handle, then slides behind the wheel.

Twila watches him shut the door before looking at me. “You scared him off.”

“He looked scared before I got here.”

“He was about to tell me something.”

“No, he was about to piss himself.”

“Same difference.”

I stop a few feet away.

Up close, I can see the pale healing line at the corner of her lower lip. No makeup today. She don’t need any. That irritates me more than it should.

“You looking into something?” I ask.

She crosses her arms. “Who, me?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Play dumb.”

“You do it so well I figured I’d try.” She shifts her weight onto one boot and looks past me toward the road, checking that the clerk is actually leaving.

I follow her gaze until his car disappears around the corner.

“What’d you ask him?”