uncannily accurate. “I’m not giving out information, so don’t bother pumping me.”
“Could be that I might be in a position to throw some information your direction as the case progresses.”
Tipping the bottle to his lips, Gabe drank. “Don’t do me any favors.”
“Well, since you asked so nice…I’ll be talking to you, Connally. Right now there’s a blonde who craves my attention.”
He slid off the stool and sauntered in the direction of a woman sitting at a table nearby, who looked distinctly happier to see him than Gabe had been.
Ordering another beer, Gabe listened with only half an ear to the guy on the other side of him bemoan the Bulls’ chances of rebuilding another championship team. With one elbow resting on the bar, he let his attention drift as he studied the rest of the customers in the establishment.
Mostly regulars, he observed, people he knew by sight, if not by name. There were a few neighborhood faces, a few like McKay, who frequented the place trying to pick up information, but most of the customers were cops who enjoyed relaxing after the job with their buddies. He took another long swallow of beer, then froze in the act of returning the bottle to the bar. His gaze ricocheted to a table toward the back of the place, and he stared incredulously.
What the hell was Meghan Patterson doing in Brewsters?
What she was doing, he quickly concluded, was a damn fine job of distracting just about every man in the bar. His weren’t the only pair of eyes trained in her direction. With that mass of golden curls spilling down her back, and her curves shown to advantage in the black sweater and skirt she was wearing, she looked as out of place in the slightly shabby tavern as a debutante at a cock fight.
His attention shifted to her companion and his brows drew together. Wattrel…Wadrell, that was it. His frown turned to a scowl. Fresh out of the academy, they’d been rookies in the same division years ago. The man hadn’t made many friends then with his methods for cutting corners and currying favor with the brass. Based on what Gabe had learned recently, Wadrell hadn’t changed much. Only the stakes had grown higher.
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