bartender chuckled. “Must be woman problems.”
Dalton shrugged. “Something like that.”
“I can always spot a rebound a mile away.” He nodded smugly as if he’d just solved the crime of the century. “I’m Jerry, by the way. I got a good ear for listening.”
Man, he wished the guy would shut up. But then again, maybe he had a big mouth to go with that good ear. “Get me another shot.”
Jerry eyed the glass Dalton hadn’t touched yet, but shrugged and went to get the bottle of tequila. As soon as he’d turned his back, Dalton emptied the liquor into his beer.
“Whoa! That was fast.” Jerry set the clean glass aside and refilled Dalton’s empty. “You must be having big trouble with the wife.”
He smiled and scoped out the pool table in the corner. Two guys played eight ball while getting shit-faced, even though the tall red-haired, lanky one looked too young to drink. “This is kind of a strange place.”
“The bar or the town?”
“Both.”
“Yup.” Jerry set the bottle of tequila aside and rested both elbows on the bar, leaning closer as if he had a big secret to tell. “This town is made up of the super rich and the poor slobs who made them that way. And nothing in between.”
“Odd for such a small town.”
“Not really. Lots of big cattle ranches and oil around here. Folks who owned the right piece of property got to be millionaires practically overnight. Most of them are still good ole boys. They’ve bought themselves fancy cars and boots, but they still come in here to drink beer on tap.” Jerry’s gaze darted to the newest customer who flirted with the busty waitress, and his voice lowered. “A few got their noses so high in the air it’s a wonder they don’t get nosebleeds.”
Lots of money. Rich widows. Rich divorcées. Perfect breeding ground for Bask. Now it made sense why he’d landed out here. Dalton brought the tequila to his lips and took a small sip for Jerry’s benefit. “Guess you don’t get many strangers around here.”
The bartender shrugged. “Some high-fallutin Dallas types looking to buy oil or beef.”
Or con artists. Damn, he wished he could come up with a way to swing the conversation toward Bask without raising a red flag. Jerry could probably give him an earful.
Jerry frowned suddenly. “What kind of business did you say you’re in?”
Dalton started to dish out his spiel when the door opened, drawing the bartender’s attention. Something inside Dalton jumped. It was Bask. Call it instinct, whatever, but he knew it.
“Wow! Never seen her before.” Jerry straightened. “What a looker.”
Dalton twisted around. A blonde in tight black jeans and a low-cut black T-shirt stood inside the door and looked around the bar. “Shit,” he muttered, and turned around to stare into his beer. He’d been so sure it was Bask.
Jerry narrowed his gaze at Dalton, and then let it wander back to the woman. “You know her?”
“What?” Distracted, Dalton took a sip of the tequila. This sucked. How much longer would he have to sit here?
“Excuse me.” The soft feminine voice was somewhere to his left at the other end of the bar. He caught sight of her out of his peripheral vision and started to turn toward her, when she said to Jerry, “I’m looking for a Robert Bask.”
Dalton froze, and then he pulled his hat down lower over his eyes and angled the opposite way. Who the hell was this woman? Bask’s next target? An accomplice?
“Well, ma’am, I know a Robert but I don’t know his last name. I believe he should be showing up at any moment.” Jerry was all southern charm. “Can I get you something refreshing to drink while you wait?”
“No, thank you. Oh, wait…maybe a diet cola.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“With a squeeze of lime. And a cherry, if you have one.”
Dalton slid off his chair as the woman amended her order twice. He headed toward the bathroom, looking for a back door or window. He needed to find out who she was before Bask arrived. Whether she was a mark or about to join the party, Dalton didn’t need her screwing up his investigation. Better he knew her role in Bask’s scheme.
Opposite the men’s bathroom was a door that led out to a short alley. Dalton let himself out quietly and then headed in the direction of the parking lot. Half a dozen cars he recognized. They’d already been there when he arrived. The black Lexus and the red Toyota had to belong to the yuppie and the blonde.
He glanced around, and then laid a hand on the hood of the Lexus. Only moderately warm. Luckily, the Toyota was at the far end of the lot, away from the bar and the street. As he’d suspected, the engine had just been turned off. Had to belong to the blonde. He checked over his shoulder, saw that it was clear, and broke into her car in less than two minutes.
Heavily tinted windows and no security system. Man, was this his lucky day. He slid into the driver’s seat, and cursed when he hit his bum knee. The seat was adjusted too far forward for his long legs. She looked to be about five foot five, while he was just over six feet.
He left it the way it was, and checked the visor and then the glove compartment for her registration. He found it stacked neatly with her owner’s manual and several maps.
“Cassie York, Midland, Texas,” he murmured. Until he ran a check on her, that information did him little good. He rifled through the glove compartment again, and finding nothing helpful, he flipped open the center console.
The small cubicle looked like a survival kit. Candy bars, granola bars, a hairbrush, two tubes of lipstick, a toothbrush in a plastic baggie and a small leather business card holder. He picked it up and read the top card.
“Goddamn!”
A private investigator? He looked out of the tinted window toward the bar as if he could see the blonde. Cassie York, private investigator.
“Shit!”
She was going to screw everything up. Bask would know his latest con was a bust, and disappear. And Dalton would be stuck following this guy for the rest of his sorry career.
No way. He got out of the car and practically sprinted to the back door. A dark blue Mercedes pulled into the lot just as he let himself in. With his luck, it was probably Bask, just because now he didn’t want him to show up.
Dalton swore when he creamed his finger in the door in his haste to get to Cassie York. He had to stop her. Whatever she had planned. No matter what.
CASSIE REALLY HATED playing the dumb blonde. But it worked. Every time. Men could be so stupid. She smiled at the bartender, and then sipped her diet cola from the straw he’d given her. Although it was more a salad bar than a soda. He’d dumped in cherries and orange slices and even a couple of green olives.
She wasn’t complaining, though. She’d skipped lunch to get here on time. One flattened
