She glanced up at him, vividly aware of the intimacy of their seating arrangement. “Bass? Is that what your friends call you?”
“That, or Catfish, which is a nickname from my work in the military.”
“Hah! You were military!”
He blinked down at her, looking surprised. The flecks of silver against a background of ocean blue fascinated her as they danced in his eyes. “I still am military, part-time. But how did you know?”
“You said, ‘Roger’ to me last night, and I figured you might have been a soldier.”
He studied her keenly. “You’re an observer of people, then?”
Swear to God, she was getting a little breathless sitting smashed against him like this. “It’s my job to look at everyone through the lens of how my camera would see them. Details matter.”
“Indeed they do. How long have you been working for Gary Hubbard?”
“Three seasons.”
“Ahh. That explains the change in the quality of the show three years ago.”
It was her turn to stare at him. “How do you know that?”
“Last night I watched a bunch of clips from America’s Ghosts.”
“Shouldn’t you have been out looking for Gary?”
“The bars were all closed. And I took a walk through Pirate’s Alley before I went home. I couldn’t find any forensic evidence to help us identify his captors. Frankly, the best evidence we’ve got is your film of the incident. It’s a rare thing to get actual high-quality video of a crime under investigation.”
“Glad I could help,” she replied wryly.
The coffee arrived in an old-fashioned chrome pot, and Bass poured her a cup of what turned out to be delicious chicory coffee, strong and aromatic. A moment later, a huge plate covered in fried, spiraling donut batter and powdered sugar was plunked down in front of her.
She took a bite of the hot, crispy pastry, tender and moist on the inside, and groaned as her taste buds orgasmed. “Ohmigosh, this is fantastic.”
Bass grinned, watching her as she took another bite...and groaned again. “You like it?” he drawled.
“God, yes.”
“So you appreciate good food, but you don’t cook.”
She picked up a napkin to wipe away what had to be a confectioner’s sugar mustache. “I like food too much to mangle it, so I let other people cook it.”
“Cooking’s not that hard. Someone just has to show you how, and then it takes a little practice.”
“Do you cook?” she asked him curiously.
“I’ve been known to putter around a bit in a kitchen.” He flashed her a thousand-watt smile that all but knocked her off her stool. Was he flirting with her? Surely not. But still. Dang, that man oozed charm. With difficulty, she recalled the general thread of their conversation.
The big bad detective was an amateur chef? Interesting. “Have you got a specialty?”
“Folks seem to like my jambalaya.”
“That’s some sort of stew, isn’t it?”
He grabbed his chest theatrically, which made her grin. “Woman, you’re killing me. Jambalaya is not just stew. It’s seafood and sausage in a base of rice and vegetables in broth, the whole thing seasoned until your eyes water from how good it tastes.”
She frowned. “I don’t do spicy food. My eyes would water from the heat.”
“Ahh well. A taste for heat can be learned.”
His voice had a rough edge that shivered across her skin. Or maybe that was just her shivering in response to his double entendre. She glanced at him sidelong, and he was frowning down into his cup of coffee.
Her heart tumbled to the floor. He seemed annoyed with himself, maybe for making the inadvertently sexy comment. Drat. He wasn’t attracted to her in the least. She looked away, more disappointed than made any sense to her at all.
“Where are you from that you don’t know what jambalaya is and you don’t like a little heat?” he asked, the sudden question startling her.
His expression was closed now. Stubborn. The man had no intention of flirting with her. At all. She mumbled, “I live in New York City. But I’m originally from upstate New York.”
“Ahh. A Yankee. That explains a lot.”
Nope. Not attracted to her at all. He was backing off that heat comment as fast as humanly possible. Well, hell.
“What does my being a Yankee explain?”
He merely shrugged and took a sip of hot coffee. They ate in silence for a moment, and then, in an abrupt change of subject, he said, “I put out a BOLO on your boss.”
“What’s a BOLO?”
“It stands for Be On the Look Out. The entire NOPD got copies of the picture you gave me and will be watching for him. If he’s out and about anywhere in the city, we’ll find him and bring him in.”
“What if he doesn’t turn up?” she asked, dread thick in her throat.
“Then we’ll see what the forensics guys find in his computer. If that doesn’t give us anything to work with, we’ll pursue other leads until we find him. You haven’t had any phone calls from anyone since last night, have you?” he asked.
“You mean like a ransom call?” she blurted, surprised.
“Correct.”
“No”
“I’d like to stay with you through the day today. If there’s going to be a ransom demand, it usually comes in the first twenty-four hours after an abduction.”
“Do you want to hook up my phone to a machine that can trace the call?”
“Kidnappers worth their salt know how to disguise the location of calls these days. They use voice-over-Internet protocols and bounce the calls off a bunch of IP addresses. Long story short, we can’t trace calls if the caller doesn’t want to be traced.”
“That sucks,” she commented. “You’d think technology would help the police catch more criminals.”
“What works for us works for them.”
“Just a heads-up for you,” she said reluctantly. “When word gets out that Gary’s been kidnapped, it’s likely to draw some media attention.”
“How much media attention?”
“News crews, journalists, probably some tabloid photographers,” she
