“Caroline, hey,” said Baker rigidly, glancing nervously at Decker. “This is Caroline Dawson,” he said to Decker.
“Yeah, I got that,” replied Decker, gazing sternly at his soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law.
“Um, Caroline, this is Amos Decker, and his partner, Alex. Amos is—”
“I’m Stan’s friend,” interjected Decker. “Neither of us knew the other was in town.”
Caroline smiled. “Cool, what a nice surprise. You ready?” she asked Baker before glancing at Alex. “Hey, you guys want to join us? We’re going clubbing.”
“There are clubs here?” said an incredulous Jamison.
Caroline smiled and did an eye roll. “I know. You wouldn’t think, but yeah, there are maybe three good places. Well, they’re more bars than clubs. But not all of them play just country music, which Stan loves and I can’t stand.”
“We’re good,” said Decker. “We just flew in. Pretty beat.”
“Okay, we’ll do a rain check, then.”
“Right.”
Caroline gripped Baker’s hand. “Let’s roll. First stop, the OK Corral Saloon.”
“Do you live in London?” asked Decker suddenly.
She grinned. “Yeah. I’d prefer to live in London, England. Maybe someday. My dad owns this hotel, and a bunch of other businesses. I help him run them. He lives in a big place way outside of town. I sometimes stay there, but I also have a condo in town.”
“Okay.”
“See ya,” said Caroline, and she led Baker from the room. Jamison looked at Decker. “What a coincidence, huh?” Decker sat back down and stared dully at the wooden-topped table.
“Sorry about your sister,” she said.
“She should have called me,” said an obviously stricken Decker.
“Are you sure she didn’t try to contact you?” said Jamison in a suspicious tone.
Decker suddenly looked guilty. “I think there might have been some voice mails I forgot to return.”
“Wow, for a guy who can’t forget anything that is remarkable.”
“I know, I know,” he said miserably. “I’m bad about that.”
“You need to talk to her. Be supportive. Let her tell her story without being judgmental.”
“People work stuff out all the time. And Stan has already found someone else.”
“I’m not sure he’s looking for a permanent companion in this relationship, Decker. And by the looks of it neither is Caroline. I think they’re just two people having fun.”
When their food finally came Decker only took a few bites before mumbling to Jamison, “Sorry, I . . . I lost my appetite. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He headed out without further explanation.
THE OK CORRAL SALOON.
It was big, loud, and assuredly hopping.
The lights blazed from every window and Decker could hear the music blasting out of the place. It was country, with a dash of rock and roll, at least to his ear. It shot through the air like a sound cannon.
He stood outside and felt his skin slowly begin to pucker with the humidity that had returned after the storm.
After he cleared the outside bouncer checking IDs, Decker opened the door, and the heat and comingled smells of sweat and spilled alcohol hit him like a tank round. Either they had no AC or it was having a struggle to keep up with the warmth thrown off by the waves of swaying people. And from what Decker could see, he might have been the only sober customer in the joint.
He edged around a knot of young people near the front entrance. They seemed to be holding each other up, though it was not yet ten o’clock. He didn’t want to be around these folks at midnight.
There was a live band, four guys, and a gal as the lead singer. Her hair was Dolly Parton big and swirled around her head as she danced while crooning a Faith Hill ballad to pitch perfection. The band looked like petrified wood next to her steamy gyrations. She started her next set, and from what Decker could hear, the lyrics focused principally on guys, gals, dogs, and guns, with a Chevy pickup thrown in for good measure. There was a quartet of ninety-inch TV screens on the walls, all tuned to sports channels. In one corner behind a waist-high partition was a mechanical bull, but it didn’t seem to be in operation. It just sat there looking pissed off.
He stood near the back and took his time surveying the room. On one wall was a sign with very large letters that read, BAR RULES: YOU PULL ANY CRAP IN HERE PARTICULARLY FIGHTING AND YOUR ASS IS GONE FOR GOOD. WHEN YOU ARE CUT OFF, YOU ARE DONE. ZERO TOLERANCE. HAVE A GOOD TIME.
A minute later he spotted the pair. Caroline was on the parquet dance floor flitting around a flat-footed Baker, like a hummingbird to a very large, very stiff flower. Or cactus, more like it. Baker moved his feet an inch or two from side to side, stuck his hands up, and tried to look like he was enjoying himself.
Why is she with him?
Someone nudged Decker. It was a man even larger than he was who started speaking to him in a low but menacing voice.
“Look, bud, you want to stay here you need to buy something, food or drink or preferably both,” the man said. He weighed in at about three-fifty, bald as a cue ball, and his flabby gut was overshadowed only by the muscular breadth of his shoulders. “Otherwise, you need to go. Somebody’s got to pay to keep the lights on and the booze flowing.”
Decker moved up to the bar, which spanned one entire wall. The bar stools were all occupied. He wedged next to a couple doing a lip-lock and somehow still managing to chug beer, and a well-dressed woman in her early forties who held a cocktail with about a pound of fruit in it.
The bar sported a hundred beers on tap and a similar number in bottle, many of them IPAs that Decker had never heard of. He opted for Budweiser in the can that set him back five bucks and stood with his back to the bar so he could keep watching his brother-in-law make a fool of himself.
Correction, soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law.
Caroline was now hanging off Baker, looking dreamily up into the man’s face before planting a kiss on his lips. In this stark image all Decker could see was his sister Renee and her four kids, and he had to look away before anger got the better of him. Then he caught himself. What business was it of his anyway? Why was he even here?
“You’re the Fed, right?”
Decker looked to his left. The person speaking was the fruit-chugging lady. She was slender and fit, the line of her triceps showing against the fabric of her tight blouse. She had on a wedding ring and a gold-plated pinky ring. Her hair was light brown with blond highlights and hung down to her shoulders. She wore a pair of jade earrings shaped as miniature Buddhist temples. Her features were finely chiseled and quite attractive, her eyes a light blue.
“And why do you think that?” asked Decker.
“I’m Liz Southern. My husband, Walt, just did the post on your victim. He told me you were in town.”
“But again, how’d you know it was me out of all the people here?”
“He said watch out for a guy in his forties who looks like an ex-NFL offensive lineman.”
“That would fit about ten of the guys here, maybe more.”
“You didn’t let me finish. He also said you had brooding, intelligent, hard-to-read features. That definitely does not match any of the ten or so guys in this room you were probably referring to. They’re as easy to read as a Dr. Seuss book.”