carried loaded trays between the dozen or so tables, all occupied. In the far right corner, a three-piece band frantically played a fast one for the half-dozen couples gyrating on the tiny dance floor. On the far side of that was an archway leading to the pool tables where several men were clustered.
For a Monday night, Shotgun Sam was doing all right.
Sara was both anxious and weary as she stepped up to the bar and waited. After a few impatient moments, the very tall, very bald bartender with a handlebar mustache and a white apron wound around his generous torso, noticed her and ambled over.
“What can I get you, little lady?” he asked, his voice soft when she’d been expecting booming. His nametag read Oscar.
“I’m looking for Graham Kincaid,” Sara told him. “Is he here tonight?”
Oscar’s eyes slid to the pool area, then narrowed as he looked back at her. “Who wants to know?”
There was that almost automatic shielding again. The man sure had a lot of friends. “My name is Sara Morgan, and I need Mr. Kincaid’s help.” She held a photo out to him.
“Detective Kincaid,” he corrected, peering at the picture she held, then at her face. “He’s on leave. He likes to be left alone.”
She swallowed a sigh, not wanting to aggravate the man. “So I’ve been told. I only need a few minutes of his time, honest.” She’d rehearsed her story repeatedly and prayed that she could pitch her case quickly if she ever found the man.
The bartender ran a hand over his bald pate as he studied her for another few seconds, then apparently decided to take a chance on her. “He’s over at the last pool table, the tall guy dressed in black.”
Relieved that she’d found him, Sara gave Oscar a smile. “Thank you.”
Carefully, she followed a waitress zigzagging through the tables, then had to maneuver around the dancers until she reached the arch. This room also was dim except for large shaded lamps hanging over each of the three pool tables. A bearded man wearing a leather vest hanging open over his naked chest studied the balls at the first table. Another with a long ponytail and low-riding jeans took his turn at the second table. Half a dozen other men stood around, some with cue sticks, others just watching. Sara moved a bit closer to get a better look at the man in question before he noticed her.
Graham Kincaid didn’t look like the real-life legend she’d expected. Granted he was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, with a rangy build and well-defined shoulders straining the seams of a black T-shirt. Much like a lot of guys. As he bent over the table to line up his shot, the woman in Sara couldn’t help noticing that he had a pair of spectacular buns snuggled into faded black jeans.
Watching closely, she saw him cock his head to one side, considering his best move, a lock of black hair falling onto his forehead. Now she saw it, the inscrutable face, a strong jaw covered with several days’ growth of dark beard. Though she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, she’d bet they were cold and assessing.
Growing impatient, she shifted her feet, waiting for him to take his shot. At this rate, it must take him hours to play a game. The men watching were quiet, unmoving. Was that pool etiquette or was it respect for the man? she wondered. Did he have a Minnesota Fats reputation in pool halls? Or was it his line of work that lent him that respectful, enigmatic edge?
Sara knew Graham Kincaid had been an FBI profiler for several years, then a Phoenix homicide detective and now he headed the Arizona Special Unit on Missing Persons. She’d also found out that he’d been placed on leave of absence by his captain because of something that had happened a while ago. But no one would say what or when or who’d been involved. She figured that after some idle time, he might be ready for action.
She prayed she was right.
Finally he narrowed his gaze, lining up his cue stick just right and…and stayed there, crouched low, not moving. Enough already, Sara thought, and approached him from the side.
“Are you Graham Kincaid?” she asked loud enough to be heard over the music, just as his cue stick slammed forward. The balls went scooting all over the table, but none went into a pocket.
Slowly he straightened and turned to Sara. “You made me miss my shot,” he said in a deep, annoyed voice.
“Did I? I’m sorry, but I really need to talk with you.”
She’d been right, his eyes were steely gray and cool as he looked her up and down.
“That so? Well, I don’t need to talk with someone who doesn’t know enough to stay back when a man’s about to take a shot.”
Sara was not intimidated. “I said I was sorry.”
“Yeah. Now go away.” He picked up a piece of chalk and started rubbing the end of his cue stick.
“Please, I really need your help,” she insisted. She tried not to notice the men standing around listening to their exchange. Graham’s opponent took a shot and missed by a mile, probably too engrossed in the little drama to take better aim.
“I’m on leave of absence,” he told her, his eyes averted.
Undaunted, Sara went on. She had to make him understand. “My name is Sara Morgan, and there’s a young boy missing. His name is Mike, and he’s twelve years old.”
A muscle in Graham’s cheek clenched. “Lots of young people go missing every day, every year.”
Her voice softened as she stepped closer to him. “This one’s special.”
“They’re all special,” he said, then leaned down, lining up his next shot.
Frustrated but determined, Sara took a picture from her shoulder bag and tossed it onto the green felt next to the white ball.
Despite his irritation with the persistent woman, Kincaid’s eyes moved to the picture. A close-up head shot of a young blond boy, mischief radiating from his blue eyes. Kincaid sucked in a swift breath as the image hit home, the eyes reminding him of another young boy who’d been missing.
Straightening, he studied the woman looking up at him with a similar pair of blue eyes, beseeching yet refusing to let the tears fall. Her lips were full and on the verge of trembling. Her long blond hair was pulled back and anchored at her nape with some sort of clip. She was small, with a willowy figure, yet even in jeans and a man-tailored white shirt, she looked decidedly feminine. Sara Morgan was quite a package.
But he wasn’t buying.
He held the picture out to her. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
Her shoulders sagged fractionally, then rallied. “I’d be willing to pay you.” She had no idea what the going rate was, but she’d pay almost anything to get Mike back safely.
He looked vaguely offended. “I have a job. I don’t need your money.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that I’m feeling a little desperate here and….”
“You can report a missing child to the police if he’s been gone twenty-four hours. You’d be better off doing that.” He turned back to his game.
She
