mistress.”
“You haven’t seen me harsh.”
It was the wrong thing to say, because he had, actually, and it was one subject they didn’t talk about. Omar looked at her for a few seconds, and then nodded and walked away.
It always surprised her how quickly the hours could pass when there was a full slate of things to do. Jazz stuck her head in at some point and announced that she was heading home, with Omar as an unwanted passenger, riding shotgun. Lucia checked the clock and found it already after office hours. She gathered up the motel cards that Omar had secured, and went down to McCarthy’s office.
“Here,” she said. He was standing up, putting files in a cabinet, and he looked at the keys over the top of some little half-glasses he’d put on for reading. They made him look leonine and oddly daft.
“Home sweet home,” he said, and reached for them. “Which one’s first?”
“Motel 6, on top. They’re in order. Omar booked you for a different place every week.”
He nodded, as if that was the most reasonable thing in the world. “Omar?”
“You’ll meet him later. He’s a friend of mine.”
Her eyes touched his, then moved on. Not that close a friend, she wanted to say, but there didn’t seem to be any way to do so that wouldn’t sound … ridiculous. “Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger, but Detective Stewart seemed quite—intent. I thought it was better to give you some breathing space for a while.”
“Thanks. Sure you won’t join us for dinner?”
“You’ve already had a meal with me today. This should be Jazz’s evening with you. Besides, I’m boring dinner company.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.” He looked at her over the top of those glasses, and the blue eyes came as a shock. Again. “Come. I hear that Manny likes you well enough to allow you into the Inner Sanctum.”
She didn’t need much persuading, and that was a traitorous thing, a thing that disappointed her. “Fine,” she said. “Jazz is on her way there. I’ll stop off at home to change clothes.”
Which drew his eyes involuntarily down her body, and she felt it like a physical touch. He caught himself, and focused back on the files.
“Do you want a drink?”
“Sorry?”
“A drink?” She had no idea where that blurted offer had come from, but once it was out, she couldn’t back away from it.
His hands paused. He leaned on the desk, looking down. “Yes,” he said. “Got any Scotch?”
“Blended or single malt?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Single malt.”
“There is no other kind.”
“Follow me.”
She was acutely aware of him in the hallway, his warmth at her back as they passed the empty spaces. Jazz’s door was closed. Pansy Taylor, their assistant, was still there, sorting mail, her glossy dark head bent toward her desk. She glanced up, and Lucia caught a fast smile before she turned her attention back to her work.
Lucia shut the office door behind McCarthy and motioned him to the couch in the corner, near the window. He settled. She opened the cabinet in the back and took out chunky crystal tumblers and a sealed bottle of Glenmorangie, then walked back over to sit in the chair next to the couch. She filled glasses, set the bottle aside and contemplated the russet-amber liquor for a few seconds before sipping. The taste was as warm as the color—a harsh bite that faded to a mellow, smoky glow in her mouth, then woke an answering fire in her stomach.
Neither of them had said a word, she realized, and it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. More as if they were in perfect agreement about what a lovely moment it was, sipping single malt.
When his glass was dry, McCarthy said, “I can’t get used to the quiet. It’s never quiet in prison. Always some sound—footsteps, talking, things moving. Crying, sometimes. You can’t sleep deeply. Always waiting.” He held out his glass, and she mutely refilled it. “They thought they’d kill me, putting me in general population.”
“You survived.”
“Yeah.” His smile was weary and bitter and just a touch sad. “You do that, if you can. No matter what it takes.”
“Do you want me to ask what it took?”
“Just saying.” He rested his head against the leather back of the couch, watching her through contemplative, half-closed eyes. “You understand how I feel about the Cross Society, right?”
“I understand that you think they betrayed you.”
“No, it wasn’t that personal. They just stopped having a use for me, that was all. Look, you and Jazz, you got caught up with them. I understand that. So did I. I think you need to get out now, while you can. You get embedded too deeply …” He shrugged. “Consequences can be harsh.”
“I appreciate the warning, Ben.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. So, you and Jazz. Good friends?”
“I like to think so.”
“This Borden guy, he good enough for her? Apart from being a Cross Society asshole?”
Lucia fought back a smile. “Oh, I think he’s very good for her. Good enough? That would depend on your point of view. What’s yours?”
“Older brother. I’d say father, but that’s just depressing.”
“And untrue. You’re only, what? Forty-four?”
“Just like the gun. And I get to say that two years in a row. Ain’t I lucky?”
She laughed and tossed back the rest of her drink. “I like you, Ben.” She meant it lightly, but his eyes flashed, and she felt something bloom hot inside. Insanely hot. Ridiculously so. One glass of whiskey wasn’t enough to make her feel like this. Not even one glass of Glenmorangie.
“Careful,” Ben murmured, and drank the last of his as well. “Men like me, fresh out of prison … only got three things on our minds.”
“Such as?”
“Food.”
“We had breakfast.”
He leaned forward and put the glass on the side table, next to the bottle of whiskey. “Finding a place to stay.”
“Lucky you, you have four of them.”
“You really want me to go on?” he asked. “Because the third one on the list wouldn’t be gentlemanly.”
“Can’t have that,” she agreed. “You’ve been a perfect gentleman
