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Tripp bobs his head to the side. “Well, I was angry.”
I allow a laugh.
He returns a smile, and I think our eight-year friendship has a shot. Truth? If the tables were turned and he’d messed with Marisol, one ofmytroublesome little sisters, or left me in the dark when I needed to be in the know, I question my own capacity for forgiveness.
There might indeed be more to this faith thing than I’ve previously credited.
Swiveling his wrist for a glance at his watch, he stands. “So. Time is ticking. What are we going to do about finding this guy?”
I rise, but it takes effort. Sleep deprivation has me bone weary. “I already checked his last known address. No luck.”
“So that’s it? You’re a cop, aren’t you? An investigator?”
A sigh nearly consumes me. “At this point, I’m not sure it would do—”
“Red alert—You’ve been made.”
Tripp stops me when I start to turn. “Reporters?”
He digs in his pocket and tosses me his key. “My truck’s at the far end of your parking lot. Circle around the block and come at it from behind. I’ll run interference here and meet you at one of the gas stations down by the freeway as quick as I can.”
CHAPTER 38
Marco
It’s a seedy bar in a seedy part of town. Shockingly, it’s not the worst I’ve been in, or even the worst one today.
This is our fourth location thus far. So much for three strikes and out. Tripp insists we soldier on. Until five o’clock, that is.
His instincts are as good as anyone’s, and he’s tenacious when he’s on the scent. Personally, my instincts are set on silent. Too close to the problem, I guess.
The place has a dungeonlike feel, drafty and dark, and the haze of cigarette smoke messes with my throat, though a coughing fit isn’t suitable for playing tough guy. It’s early yet, so most of the tables are empty, but the crowd that has gathered is a real mix of age and race. An equal opportunity hellhole—ain’t it grand.
I wish for the comfort of my own firearm pressed against my spine. Tripp has strapped up with his holster and badge on full display. Not always the right move, but I’m following his lead on this one.
Most of the customers track our approach to the bar and visibly lean into our conversation with the bartender. The grizzled man is covered in crepey tattoos, wary, and straight out of central casting. Tripp rests his forearms on the counter. “Got a minute?”
The guy shrugs and shuffles our way. Tripp’s badge implies he might not have a choice. I’m not new to this kind of thing, but I’m nervous as heck. It’s my life on the line here.
“What do you want?”
“We’re looking for Dell.”
The guy doesn’t blink. “Not here.”
My heart literally skids to a stop. So far, everyone we’ve talked to has pretended to flat-out not know the guy.
“Do you know when he’ll be around?”
Shrug.
“What can you tell me about him?”
Another shrug.
“I don’t suppose you’d have a last name?”
With a full name, we could at least run a background check, but so far, we don’t know who we’re dealing with. Asking is a waste of time, but…
