Olivia? She checked her watch, anxious to leave, to have a drink with the detectives and the FBI agent investigating a trio of grisly murders.
Thirty minutes later she arrived at the Mockingbird, still wearing her minuscule skirt and the lacy garter belt she’d flashed at West. She’d added a biker jacket to the ensemble, warding off a self-induced chill.
What if Glenn had done something to intensify her father’s pain? What if he had been part of her dad’s despair? A link in his suicide?
It was a cruel thought, but it kept running through her brain, slinking and sliding like a poisonous snake.
Clearing her mind, she entered the bar. The Mockingbird was a down-to-earth watering hole, with a jukebox in front and a billiard table in back. The owner, a no-nonsense Irishman, didn’t take any guff from his law-enforcement patrons.
Olivia found Muncy and Riggs seated at a scratched and scuffed table, drinking beer and eating peanuts. They looked up, greeting her in unison.
“Where’s West?” she asked.
Muncy gestured with his thumb. “In the head.”
She glanced in the direction of the men’s room and took the chair across from Riggs.
“That’s where West is sitting,” the female detective said. “That’s his drink in front of you.”
“Oh.” Olivia smiled at the other woman, picked up the glass and tasted the contents. “Strong stuff.”
Riggs laughed. “You left a lipstick mark.”
Olivia ran her tongue across her teeth. She wasn’t used to bourbon. “It’ll probably turn him on.”
“Who? West?” Muncy made a curious expression. “I knew something was going on earlier. I knew I missed something.”
Olivia took another sip of the special agent’s drink, and he came out of the bathroom, catching sight of her hording his spot and his alcohol.
He approached the table. “What are you doing? Warming my seat?”
“Nope, it’s my seat now. And your fly is open.”
He bent his head to check his zipper, and Olivia winked at Riggs. His fly wasn’t open, but she’d made him look.
“Funny girl.” He snatched away his drink, studied the lipstick mark, then put his mouth directly over it and downed the rest of his bourbon.
Olivia felt as if she’d just been kissed. Or kicked. Or both. West never failed to leave her sexed up and irritated.
He grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table and placed it next to her, too close for comfort.
Muncy ate another handful of peanuts, but he was watching her and West, analyzing their body language.
“I picked this song,” the special agent said.
Olivia listened to the lyrics playing on the jukebox. “You shot the sheriff?”
“No. The guy singing did.” He rubbed the lipstick mark with his thumb, smearing it. “Eric Clapton. Am I still on your shit list, Ms. Whirlwind? Olivia?”
“Yep.”
“Mine, too,” Riggs put in.
“You hit on both of them?” Muncy shook his head, chuckling beneath his breath. “Federal Bureau of Insanity.”
West defended himself. “It was a joke.” He signaled the cocktail waitress for another drink, and she arrived instantly. “Give us both one of these.” He held up his empty glass and gestured to Olivia. “But make hers a double.”
“I’ll take a cola,” she said, declining the bourbon. Alcohol diminished her ability, and now she wanted to remain on guard. West’s eyes were on the verge of glowing, catching a flicker of candlelight.
Riggs scooted closer to the table. She still wore her sensible outfit, and her hair was still neatly styled. “I lost interest in him.”
“I was never interested,” Olivia said.
The lady cop merely smiled. She knew Olivia was lying. Everyone probably knew. Including West.
“I wanted him right away.” Muncy joined in, making the girls laugh.
West rolled his candlelit eyes, then shot the jovial detective the bird.
Olivia decided they were an interesting group. A foursome. Not a threesome, she thought. No ménage.
Her soda arrived, along with West’s hard liquor. She sipped. He guzzled.
“Still thinking about your ex?” she asked.
“Don’t start. I’m sick of women.”
“He’s drunk.” Riggs clucked her tongue. “Someone is going to have to pour him into bed tonight.”
Olivia turned to look at the intoxicated agent. “I knew he was going to get wasted.”
He made a disgusted sound. “’Cause you know everything.”
She didn’t respond. His psychic envy was showing. But he probably thought she had penis envy. Most macho men did. “I’ll drive him back to his motel.”
“Lucky me. What if I puke all over your Porsche?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He lowered his gaze to her throat, and she sensed that he wanted to touch her scar.
And then she got another eerie feeling.
Someone was watching them. Not someone in the bar. But someone with powers that rivaled Olivia’s. Someone who could see them in his mind.
The Slasher, she thought, as her veins turned to ice.
The man prowling the city for another victim.
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