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“Fuckkkk.” I reach up and scratch a hand through my short hair. But then I drop it again and unsnap my belt. “If I die tonight…”
He laughs and swings his arm across to smack my chest. “Good luck and godspeed, Malone. If she takes you out, do you want me to stay tightlipped on the vigilante thing? Or can I finally close the Justin Dowel homicide?”
“We take it to the grave.” Grinning, I grab his wrist and shove his hand away. “I’ll catch you on the other side. Tell Moo I said hey.” I push my door open and step out, only to turn back around and duck my head. “And ask Fifi out. Ya know… If you wanna. If you think you’re ready to try that out for size. She’s stuck up, man, and so fucking prickly it hurts. But I think she’s got a heart of gold behind that three-inch armor.”
“You’re full of wisdom today. Now fuck off.” He brushes me away with a flick of his wrist. “Go focus on your business, Malone. Stay out of mine.”
“Yeah.” I tap the roof of the cruiser and make space to close the door. Then, moving onto the sidewalk lining our street, I simply stare… step left, and go up to my apartment. Or step right, and head into the bar.
Mere feet separate each door.
“Fuck.” I draw a deep breath, grinding my teeth as Fletch sniggers under his breath and pulls away from the curb. Then I choose the second door—the bar—since that’s where I last left my wife.
Time to face the fire.
Accepting my fate, I trudge forward and shove through the heavy bar door, emerging inside a room packed with off-duty cops and the tang of hardwood mixed with body odor and cheap cigarette smoke. Alcohol flows behind the bar, not only my brother pouring, but Daisy too, the woman aptly named, considering her penchant for tiny shorts and big hair.
I scour the room—am I looking for my wife, or a gun pointed my way?—but I come up empty, even after I locate Tim pouring from behind an icy tap.
Twenty feet separate us, dozens of bodies, and a jukebox that makes it impossible to conduct a conversation. So I start forward, digging my hands into my pockets, and come to the end of the long bar to rest my elbows on top.
Minka’s not here.
She’s not cuffed to my brother. And she’s not sitting on her usual stool, sipping soda and picking at a meal he made.
“Where is she?” The moment Tim drops a beer in front of a customer and makes his way to where I stand, I tip my chin. “When did she leave?”
“I didn’t let her go.” He lifts his arm and shows the cuff still attached to his wrist. “She called Aubree. Aubree sweet-talked a fucking cop into giving her a key, and I ended up with a stern warning from some street-walking uniform who clearly didn’t get the memo about us.”
“Which is why Aubs targeted him.” I drop my face into my hand and groan. “You just let the cop speak to you that way? Really?”
“I didn’t let him do shit!” He grabs a glass from his side of the bar and starts pouring a beer. “I might’ve talked him into pissing his pants a little bit, then all the other cops in this place gently suggested he get the fuck out. But by that point, the girls had the keys and Minka was free.”
“And where are they now?” I scrub a hand over my jaw as he sets the beer down and slides it to a waiting customer. “Did they seem a little… homicidal?”
“Aubs always seems homicidal these days,” he grunts out. “She did her job and left again. No time for me, even when I asked her to stay. Minka sashayed her ass out the door and gave me a little finger wave on the way.” He presents his hand. And then the middle finger. “That one. She said to send you home when you came here looking.”
“I’m a dead man.” I drop my head back and groan. “How long was she attached to you?”
“Twenty minutes.” He grabs a bottle of tequila from the back wall and tosses it to Daisy, who catches it with ease. It’s like they speak another language but in silence. Seamless. “She dragged me back to your place for a bit.”
Stunned, my heart thuds to a stop. “You were in my apartment? With my wife?”
“She made me.” He lifts his hands in surrender and backs away. “You made me. Let’s not forget who started this shit in the first place.”
“What were you doing in my apartment?” I raise my voice to be heard over the din of Saturday evening drinkers. “Tim! What did you do in my apartment?”
“I’m not getting into your marriage.” He turns away and uses a different tap to pour from, ignoring me completely. Because he knows I won’t be pleased about whatever the fuck he was doing in private with my wife.
Fuck.
Shoving away from the bar and striding around cops who drink and smile, flirt, and play pool, I slam the front door open and stalk the eight or so feet to the next door. I push inside and pass our elderly landlord, whose face is saggier than an old man’s ball sack and whose brows are bushier than an English sheepdog. But he adores Minka, and he lets me know whenever anyone who shouldn’t be in this building stops by.
I’m not even sure at what point the old guy became my building guard dog, but he feels important helping the police, and I feel at ease knowing random motherfuckers aren’t in the building I share with my wife.
I dip my chin in greeting as I pass, but I don’t stop to chat. I jump onto the stairs and begin my four-flight climb, knowing that if she wasn’t here, Steve would have said so already.
My heart knocks with anticipation as I round the second floor and continue up. My hands turn slick with sweat, but that’s because the temperature outside is unforgiving.
