Once he’d collected his hard copy, his attention shifted to the woman who’d lingered in the back of his mind since she’d thrown them out of her apartment. Meghan Patterson. He typed her last name into the crime data base and waited for the computer to finish processing.
Despite his partner’s assessment of his intentions, his interest in the woman was purely professional. Well, okay, he admitted, drumming his fingers lightly on the keyboard, maybe he’d admired her in a purely detached sort of way. He could only figure one good reason for a woman to scrape her hair up on top of her head the way she’d worn hers. He doubted very much, however, that she’d worn it that way with the intention of allowing a man to take it down, a pin at a time. He gave a purely masculine grin at the mental picture.
A good cop got to be an expert at sizing people up. It certainly didn’t mean he was attracted to her, which was a good thing, because he had a long-standing distaste for dishonesty. Regardless of her reasons, Meghan had lied to him yesterday, and that alone was enough to keep him wary of her. There were, he’d found, simple facts in life that had to be accepted because they couldn’t be changed. Trees had their leaves, oceans had their tides, and women had their secrets. He knew that. And knowing was reason enough to keep the females in his life at a comfortable distance.
The search yielded forty-seven Pattersons for whom arrest warrants had been issued or by whom complaints had been filed. He was unsurprised when he failed to find Meghan’s name. He scanned each report, but could find nothing to match the little information she’d given them about her sister. He switched to the Internet and accessed the Tribune’s archives. He found several references to news articles in which Meghan was mentioned, and he went through them in reverse order, starting with the oldest.
The first he read had his eyebrows climbing. He hadn’t realized the woman he’d spoken with this afternoon was part of the Tremayne dynasty. The connection implied old money, historic homes and very public divorces. Meghan’s mother was the sole heiress to one of Chicago’s wealthiest families and, from what Gabe could remember, had done her part to keep the family name in the news with the frequent breakups of her marriages.
It occurred to him then to wonder if Meghan had been married. He scrolled down the articles, but found no details to support the idea. Patterson had probably been her father’s name.
He skimmed through several more clippings, most having appeared in the social registry featuring Meghan being escorted to lavish fund-raisers. It was interesting to note that none of the pictures showed her with the same guy twice, although they all shared a polished, worthless look that made them interchangeable.
He paused to read a couple that mentioned her career in the art world and clicked impatiently on the most recent selection.
The picture unfolded in slow-motion, which, given the age of the district’s computers, was the way the Internet seemed to work most of the time. It was an invasive close-up shot, the kind the media was noted for, focused on Meghan, Danny and an older woman. The trio were dressed in black, and the photo had been snapped as they filed out of a church. Behind a casket.
The headline screamed at him, and he read the article quickly, his stomach dropping a little lower with each paragraph. He stared at the screen after he’d finished, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.
Damn his luck. His earlier certainty about persuading Meghan to allow Danny to cooperate slipped several notches. He remembered the gist of the case involving Sandra Barton; who didn’t? It had been splashed all over the news for weeks, and the only place news traveled faster than in the media was within the department itself. He now understood why Meghan might hold the police responsible for her sister’s death.
On some level, he really couldn’t blame her.
He’d lost his appetite for the steak he’d been promising himself all day, so Gabe got a couple of fast-food sandwiches before heading to Brewsters. The bar was a local hangout, its customers mostly cops, and a favorite of his and Cal’s. Of course, Cal hadn’t made regular appearances there since his marriage. Becky kept him on a pretty short leash, which was another reason Gabe steered clear of serious relationships. He had a long-held aversion to being confined.
He felt at home as soon as he pushed open the door and inhaled the secondhand smoke that all the ordinances in the world couldn’t successfully ban. Returning the greetings of some of the regulars, he found a seat at the bar and signaled the bartender to bring him his usual.
When the bottle of beer was set before him, he took a comfortable swallow, before a man slipped onto the stool beside him. Casting a sideways look, he groaned aloud. “I’m here to relax, McKay. I don’t want any hassle.”
The blond man beside him raised his brows. “Hassle? Me? I was just hoping for some friendly conversation with one of CPD’s finest.”
Gabe took a long pull from his beer. “I heard a joke the other day that made me think of you. You know what you call ten thousand reporters at the bottom of the ocean? A good start.” He chuckled at the other man’s expression. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“Of course.” Dare McKay raised a finger, and the bartender slid an iced mug of beer toward him. “Besides, that joke is probably referring to the paparazzi, not to eminent investigative journalists such as myself. And speaking of investigating…I hear you caught the D’Brusco case.”
Gabe shoved down his annoyance. The man’s sources were 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,
