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Jason was unimpressed. “Are you about to betray a source?”
“Of course not. But who’s going to believe that? It’s my job to report on your investigation. Not become part of it.”
“Then what are you doing here blocking my doorway and insisting I talk to you?”
Shipka snapped, “Because these are fucking dangerous people.” He seemed…genuine. About that, anyway.
Jason asked, “Who are? The Durrands?”
“Yes. Well. Yes.” Shipka threw an uneasy look over his shoulder. “Look, West, can I come in or not?”
Jason hesitated. This was a breach of protocol, and he was not comfortable with it. Especially after the card from Kyser. One stalker per customer.
At the same time, he was not picking up a particularly…hinky vibe from Shipka. Working in law enforcement, you did develop a sense for when people were not on the up-and-up. Shipka seemed almost desperately sincere. And if he did have information? Making him wait until Jason got back from his trip to New York meant risking Shipka changing his mind about coming forward.
Jason pulled the door wide, stepping back, and Shipka came inside, looking around with unconcealed curiosity at the weathered floorboards and vintage-looking appliances.
“Wow. This is…very Town & Country.”
Jason led the way through to the miniature living room. “But you’re not here for an interview, so don’t bother taking notes.”
“I’m not making notes. Anyway, it’s nice,” Shipka said. “I just didn’t figure you for a guy who would go in for chandeliers and sideboards.” They both studied the vintage coffee urn with its spill of pastel silk flowers, which sat on the peeling and battered table.
Jason admitted unwillingly, “My sister is an interior decorator.”
“Right. Charlotte Baldwin. She owns Le Cottage Bleu.” Shipka smiled at him.
This reminder of Shipka’s nosiness into things that did not—should not—concern him refreshed Jason’s hostility.
He said coldly, “Do you have information for me or not?”
The smile faded from Shipka’s face. “Jeez, West. You could offer me a seat at least. We’re on the same side.”
Doubtful. But okay. Maybe. Maybe Jason was a little touchy. Maybe he had reason. Maybe he didn’t. In either case… He sighed and pointed at the overstuffed white sofa. “Sit.”
Shipka laug
hed. He seemed unoffended. “I will. I’ve been on my feet all day chasing down leads.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Shipka laughed again, and…frankly, there was something unexpectedly engaging about his easygoing acceptance of Jason’s lack of welcome. Something unexpectedly engaging about someone who wasn’t fifty shades of grim.
Shipka sat down, looking relieved when the sofa frame didn’t crack or the mounds of cushions try to swallow him whole. He wore jeans and a perfectly respectable sport shirt in a baby blue and white check. Jason said, reluctantly, “Did you want a drink?”
Shipka brightened. “Thanks.” His gaze fell on Jason’s tumbler. “Beer. If you’ve got it.”
Jason poured himself another Canadian Club, got a Mass Riot IPA from the fridge and a mug from the freezer. He poured the beer into the frosty mug, carried it into the front room. As his fingers brushed Shipka’s, there was a snap of electricity. Shipka gave another of those quick laughs. He looked up into Jason’s eyes.
Yeah, more green than brown in those eyes.
Jason scowled, but that was because he did not want to like Shipka, let alone notice the color of his eyes. He took the matching overstuffed chair across from the sofa and said curtly, “Well?”
Shipka started to put his mug down, but then paused to look for a coaster.
Unwillingly, Jason was disarmed. After watching Shipka for a second or two, he said, “It doesn’t matter. Just set it down. Apparently the table is supposed to look like a piece of junk.”
Shipka grinned and set the mug on some of the scattered fake flower petals.
