Hard To Handle

He brought the bottle to his lips and sipped, watching the couple unabashedly. Meghan’s back was to Gabe; he’d recognized her only when she’d turned in profile for a moment. She slipped from her chair and headed in the direction of the rest rooms. He shot a glance to Wadrell. The detective watched her go, then reached for his drink with a self-satisfied smile.

Without further thought, Gabe grabbed his bottle of beer and slipped off his bar stool to wind his way to the back of the place. The rest rooms were located beside two pool tables, and from the looks of things the pool players’ concentration had just been shot to hell by Meghan’s appearance.

Loitering in the vicinity really wasn’t difficult. The rear area was packed with players and spectators. A few made token attempts to hide their cigarettes, as if the smoke hovering below the hanging lights had appeared from nowhere. Gabe filled his lungs in vicarious appreciation.

When the rest room door opened, he shifted position so that Meghan could move only a few feet before finding her way blocked by him.

“Miss Patterson.” Stunned recognition was in his voice.

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

She wasn’t a good enough actress to hide her dismay at his appearance. Like this afternoon, she retreated a bit. Her response drew a different response from him this time, though. Earlier he’d been pleased that the distance had allowed him entrance to her apartment. Now he was fighting a compulsion to slide his fingers beneath her hair, around her nape, and haul her back to him, even closer this time. He clutched his bottle tighter in one hand and jammed the other in his pants pocket.

“Detective Connally.” She’d recovered quickly, but was still visibly eager to get away from him. Remaining planted solidly in front of her, he brought the bottle to his lips, took a drink.

“Given the high esteem you have for the CPD, this is a funny place for you and your date to show up. Of course—” a corner of his mouth curled “—guess it’s also kind of funny that you’d be seeing a cop.”

“I’m not ‘seeing’ him. At least, not in the way you mean. Could I get by, please?”

He obliged by moving a few inches. There was enough space for her to pass, if she didn’t mind pressing against him, curves to angles, heat to heat. Her gaze measured the space and she remained still. Apparently she minded.

Her eyes closed for a moment in a gesture of pure frustration. “Look, I have business with him, okay? Business I’d like to finish so I can go home to my nephew.”

“Your nephew lives with you?” The interest in his voice was genuine.

“I’ve been named his guardian.” A less observant man might have missed the flicker in her eyes as she delivered the words. A less observant man also might not have focused on the way her blond waves framed her face or the interesting rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Her blue eyes narrowed at him then, and he cleared his throat self-consciously. It was considered poor form for a trained observer to be caught staring.

“Yeah, I read about what happened to your sister. Sorry for your loss.”

It was as though his words had pierced her with ice. Voice frigid, she replied, “Yes, everyone’s sorry, Detective. But that doesn’t make Sandra any less dead, does it?” She used her elbow to wedge her way past him and walked away, anger steeling her spine. Gabe watched her go, draining his beer musingly. His hope of gaining her cooperation in his current investigation seemed to be fading by the moment.

A few games of pool later, Gabe’s mood was no better, and his pockets were considerably lighter. He handed his cue to a nearby man and shrugged into his coat, amidst some goodnatured jeering.

“Hey, Connally, you’re a little off your game tonight. Must be worn-out from that second job you’ve taken on.” Fiskes grinned at him from across the table.

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t believe the benefits.”

The other man laughed. The jeers were actually preferable to the truth, Gabe thought, as he wended his way to the front of the bar—that his concentration had been shredded time and again while he’d tried to keep an eye on Wadrell’s table. He’d missed a crucial shot when he’d seen the man move his chair closer to Meghan’s, put an arm around her shoulders. And it hadn’t improved his game any to wonder whether she’d shifted away from the man purposefully, or if she’d really been reaching for her drink. At any rate his concentration hadn’t improved in the twenty minutes since she’d left the bar, alone. Not while Wadrell was still sitting at the table, looking so damned pleased with himself.

Instead of passing the seat Meghan had vacated, Gabe pulled out the chair and sat down. “Wadrell, how’s it going?”

“Connally.” The other man’s voice held an edge of wariness. “Oh…you know. Still chasing bad guys.”

“Yeah, I heard about your big case.” Gabe looked around, signaled the waitress to their table and ordered a couple of beers. “Got a lot of press on that one, didn’t you?”

The man shrugged. “You know how the media is. Warring gangs are good for headlines, especially when drug dealing is thrown into the mix.”

“Not to mention the sensationalism of using a psychic to help round up the leaders.” The waitress delivered the beers, and Gabe nudged one of them toward the other man, then handed the woman some bills.

Wadrell eyed him for a moment, then lifted the bottle to his lips. “That didn’t hurt any, of course.”

“Yeah, that was a different angle.” Gabe scratched his jaw. “Can’t say I’ve ever worked with one. Was she really any help?”

There was still a note of caution in the other man’s voice. “Yeah, Barton gave us some good leads. She called in and said she’d run into two of our guys in a dive they frequent. She was referred to me and came up with a couple leads about their activities that checked out. We started using her.” He shook his head and reached for a cigarette. “I don’t care if you believe in that kind of thing or not, the broad knew things, okay? We’d run a suspect in, place Barton behind the one-way glass. She’d observe for a while, give us some tips, and then we’d interrogate them. We put away most of the members of the gang that way. Slick operation. With her help we nailed them in the questioning. They never knew what hit them.”

Gabe tried not to covet the cigarette the other man was smoking. He failed miserably. “You’re telling me she read their minds or something?” He didn’t bother to keep the disbelief out of his voice. He’d never put much stock in that kind of hocus-pocus. He still wasn’t convinced that Wadrell believed in it, either; he was just as likely to have grabbed the opportunity to make headlines. “How do you suppose the press caught wind that you were using a psychic? And her identity?”

Setting the bottle down in front of him, Wadrell said, “You know how the media is. Can’t even call them leaks when the department itself is like a sieve.”

“Yeah, I know how it is. Just plain bad luck that the lady up and died before you made cases on all the guys involved.”

“Who, Barton?” Wadrell leaned back in his chair, visibly more relaxed now. “Yeah, too bad she bought it, but she really wasn’t much help there at the end, anyway. The last few things she gave us didn’t pan out. We’ll round up the others. It’s just a matter of time.”

“That was her sister in here earlier, wasn’t it? Meghan Patterson.”

Wadrell’s hand froze in the act of reaching for his bottle. “Yeah, so?”

Gabe lifted a shoulder. “Recognized her. She claim to be psychic, too?”

With a leer, the man said, “If she is, I hope she didn’t read my mind tonight. You know what I mean?”

“Way I hear it, this Patterson’s got a major beef with the department.”

Wadrell nodded. “She’s got some crazy notion her sister’s car accident was no accident at all—that the gang we were busting set it up to get her out of the way. Nothing to that, of course, but she won’t let it go.”

Comprehension dawned, and with it, a shimmer of anger. “Oh, so that’s the angle.” At the man’s silence, Gabe lowered his voice conspiratorially, buddy to buddy. “C’mon, Wadrell, you gonna pretend you’re cherry on this? You’re stringing the sister along like you might be able to get more information on the accident for her, all the while hoping she’ll throw a little action your way.”

The smirk that settled on the man’s lips was an open invitation to a clenched fist. “Well if there’s any action to be thrown, I’m gonna be the one to catch it. That is one fine piece of woman.”

Gabe leaned back in disgust. “Yeah, and why wouldn’t she be interested in a prince like you? Did you have something going with this Barton, too?”

The other man drained his beer, and set the bottle back on the table. “Naw. Not that she wasn’t a looker. But there was a hard edge to that one, you know? Compared to her, this Patterson is a babe in the woods. The sister was downright spooky.” Catching the scowl the bartender was aiming at him, he ground his cigarette out in the ashtray.

A few more minutes convinced Gabe that Wadrell had no more information that was of interest, which was good, because his tolerance level had lowered alarmingly. Gabe threw a couple bucks on the table and rose. Self-serving jerks like Wadrell gave him the heaves. There was no doubt in his mind that the other detective had been the one to alert the media, anonymously, of course, that a psychic was helping with his case. Wadrell would hand over his grandmother to get some exposure. It had been unprofessional and, once the media had dug up Barton’s identity, downright dangerous for the woman. With guys like Wadrell in the department, it was no wonder Meghan was down on the CPD.

He pushed open the door, the cold slap of wind in his face a wicked contrast to the heat in the bar. Given the circumstances, he could understand why Meghan was convinced Wadrell’s suspects had arranged to get rid of her sister. It could have happened just that way. But according to the detective, it hadn’t.

There was a movement to his left, alerting him to the figure huddled against the building. He took his time reaching into his pocket and unwrapped a piece of gum.

“Buses stopped running a couple hours ago.”

Meghan pulled the collar of her coat up closer around her throat and refused to look his way. “I’ve got a cab coming.”

“It must be taking its sweet time. How long have you been waiting?” He figured it had been at least a half hour since she’d left the bar.

Determinedly she kept her gaze fixed on the street. “I’ve called twice. It won’t be much longer.”

Resting his shoulders against the brick building, he studied her. “Be a lot warmer to wait inside.”