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Daphne texted me after I turned the offer down, saying she hoped my final answer for her would be different. It won’t be, but I sent an ambiguous answer.
“You ready?” Shane asks. It’s the second time he’s asked that, or maybe even the third, so I figure it’s time for me to start pretending.
I nod.
He insisted on coming with me as my lawyer. But my sister’s words didn’t go on deaf ears—I told him I wanted him here as my friend instead. I’m not going to let other people fight my battles for me.
I take a deep breath, then I put my fist to the door.
Big Mike answers on the first knock, eager as ever. As before, the apartment looks so staged I'm surprised there’s not a fake cookie smell wafting out.
“This is my friend, Shane,” I tell him in response to the baffled look he’s giving my friend.
Fair enough. I didn’t warn him.
“I’m his lawyer,” Shane adds—because I’m pretty sure he couldn’t help himself.
“Oh,” Big Mike says, lifting his hands. A smile flits across his face. “Guess you did warn me about your lawyer friend the first time we met, but there’s no need for that.”
I’d take comfort in his assurance, but I’m pretty sure that’s the attitude of all cops everywhere when the word lawyer is spoken.
We step inside, and Shane closes the door behind us. The only slightly personal item is a huge hamster cage against the front wall, in which Pumpkin is aggressively running on a wheel. He stops what he’s doing and stares me down, as if he blames me for curtailing his freedom.
“Come in, come in,” Big Mike says. “I’ve got a couple of drinks waiting for us.”
Sure enough, there are a couple of glasses sitting out on the coffee table—whiskey, it looks like.
“I’ll pour another one for your buddy here.”
“I’m not going to drink that,” I blurt. After hearing Deacon’s story, I’m never going to drink anything without knowing exactly where it’s been and who’s touched it.
“You’re worried I may have poisoned you?” Big Mike asks, sounding bemused.
“Not really, but I’d rather not find out the hard way.”
He nods, then heads over to the table and takes a sip from each glass. “How about now?”
“Now, I don’t want to drink it because of the germs.”
He glances at Shane, who shakes his head. “I’m on the clock.”
He’s not.
“Whoa-kay,” Big Mike says, taking a seat on an armchair arranged next to the sofa. He gestures to the sofa, and we both take a seat—me on the square closer to Big Mike.
“So, looking forward to Thanksgiving?” he asks.
“If you’ve been keeping an eye on me, I’m guessing you know enough to guess the answer,” I say. “How about you tell me why you left the bar so suddenly last Wednesday after making such a big deal of wanting to talk to me?”
Big Mike glances at Shane, then the door. Finally, he says, “A contact informed me that Daphne LaRue was on her way to the bar.”
I lean back, shocked. “You’re interested in Daphne?”
“I’m interested in RetCon, and they’re interested inyou.”
Shane’s been watching our exchange, and he says, “Why would an undercover detective at the local department be interested in RetCon?”
“I’m with the FBI,” Big Mike says, which is mostly shocking because he’s always come off as so inept. Then again, it can’t be cheap to part a screaming child from her hamster.
