Then I’m back to the bar, looking for the next drink order.
Detective Lotham takes a seat in front of me. No gray suit, but jeans and a navy blue sweater that stretches across his broad chest. Off duty, then.
He regards me. Friend or foe? He’s still debating the matter. Which means time for more fun.
“What can I get ya? Wait, let me guess: bourbon, neat.”
His brow furrows. “Good God, no.”
“Corona?” Though he didn’t seem the type.
“RumChata.”
“Seriously?”
“Around here, real men drink rum.”
I shake my head, reach up for the simple white bottle. I’d never even heard of the liqueur till this evening. Now, I’d received multiple orders for it. It reminds me of a Caribbean version of Baileys except it’s lighter in color and smells like rice pudding topped with cinnamon. I’d asked Viv about it during one of my kitchen excursions. She’d muttered darkly about Crémas, Christmastime, and I’d better demand a raise by then.
Now I get out a half glass, scoop in ice, douse it in white boozy sweetness, then push it toward the detective.
“One girly drink for the big guy. I’ll be back.” I head to the other end of the bar, topping off water for one customer, pouring fresh beers for three more. I keep my movements easy, my face bright, and pretend I don’t feel Detective Lotham’s stare burning a hole in my back.
A wave from the corner booth. I walk around to take an order for three burgers from a trio of elderly gentlemen who seem to be having a very good time. The one closest to me gestures me closer. “You the new girl Viv was talking about?” He has gray whiskers, sparkling brown eyes, and a mischievous smile. I’m willing to bet he was hell on wheels back in the day. And that day might’ve been yesterday.
“I’m the new girl,” I confirm.
“Mmm-hmm. I tell you what, girlie. That Viv give you any trouble, you come find me. I’ll set her straight.”
“Viv? You’re offering to protect me from Viv?”
“That’s right. She can be uppity. Bossy, too. And I should know; I’m her big brother.”
“That so?”
“Albert.”
“Nice to meet ya, Albert. But I’m afraid I’m gonna have to be blunt: We both know that you’re no match for Viv. Thanks for the offer, though.”
The man’s friends chortle across the table. My customer’s grin broadens. Whatever the test, apparently I passed it. A parting wink, then I deliver the order slip to Viv, informing her that she has a table of admirers, including older brother Al. She merely rolls her eyes and drops down another bucket of fries. I escape before the greasy steam coats my skin.
Back at the bar, I notice Lotham’s drink has been barely touched. Apparently, he’s planning on staying for a while. With the bar pared down to the night owls, there’s nothing that demands my immediate attention. I plop my elbows on the counter across from the Boston cop.
“So . . . of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world?”
He smiles briefly. “I had some time on my hands, wanted a drink.”
“Really? Because I think you’re still rankled that the new girl is sniffing around your turf.”
“You didn’t leave the school after our conversation.”
“Never said I was gonna.”
“You talked to students. Kyra and Marjolie.”
“I liked their yellow ribbons.”
Detective Lotham takes a sip of his RumChata. When he sets it down and exhales, his breath smells like cinnamon.
He has dark eyes, thick eyebrows, and battered features. His nose has definitely been broken, probably a couple of times, and he’s missing a piece of his ear, as if someone took a bite out of it. There’s a story there, no doubt. I like that about his face. That it’s a road map of been there, done that. It’s interesting.
In my drinking days, I devoted my share of nights to drunken hookups. Even back then, it wasn’t about the sex for me, which was generally a clumsy and forgettable affair. I liked the quiet right after. When neither of us were speaking. Just the sound of chests heaving, heartbeats slowing. That short, fleeting moment that occurs right before regret. When you can smell the sweat on your body, now mixing with someone else’s, and wonder again how you can remain so disconnected. Like it wasn’t your arms, wasn’t your legs, was never your body to begin with.
I wouldn’t invite a man like Detective Lotham up to my room for sex. But even now, I wouldn’t mind tracing the line of his chewed-up ear, his weathered jawline.
I stand, putting distance between us, then pour myself a glass of water and down it.
“I called the names you gave O’Shaughnessy,” Lotham offers up casually.
“And?”
“Wouldn’t say they sang your praises, but it does sound like you’re legit. I mean, as legit as an inexperienced, untrained civilian can be.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“No seeking of financial reward, or attention from the press.”
I shudder automatically. “I don’t care for the press.”
Lotham nods before he can stop himself, then scowls, as if I tricked him in to having something in common with me.
“Are you a good detective?” I ask Lotham.
He doesn’t take the bait.
“I think you are. You and the BPD have all the bells and whistles you could ask for. Not to mention access to way more information than I can get. For example, I had to interview Marjolie and Kyra to learn if Angelique had a boyfriend. While you probably know every detail from dumping Angelique’s phone, searching her laptop, surfing her social media. And yet you still stopped by tonight to learn what her two friends told me. Interesting.”
I push away. Drift down the bar to take a new drink order, settle a bill.
When I return, Detective Lotham has sipped infinitesimally more of his drink. This time, he doesn’t bother with pretenses.
“What did Marjolie and Kyra have to say?”
“I’ll show you mine, you show me yours?”
One arched bushy brow.
“Let’s both pretend that means yes.” I plant my elbows on the countertop. “Something changed in Angelique’s life the summer before she disappeared. She returned to school more . . . self-possessed, distant, distracted. Kyra thinks a boy, and serious enough to be sexual. Marjolie disagrees, but mostly because it hurts her feelings to think her bestie kept such a secret.”