“One more thing,” Charlie said. “Would it be safe to assume with you working out here at all hours by yourself that you’re packing?”
Dan smiled. “Yeah, it would.”
“Willing to sell us your gun?” she asked.
“No can do. But I can offer some nonlethal options.” Dealing Dan pulled out a baseball bat and a crowbar and set them on the desk.
Neither were inconspicuous options, but they’d work under the cover of darkness.
“We’ll take both,” Aiden said.
At a significant upcharge, one hundred dollars bought them two weapons.
They climbed into the Chevy. The tints on the windows were a bit chipped and starting to bubble and the sagging seats creaked when they sat on them, but the engine turned over with no drama.
The address on Rampart Street was easy to find with the navigation system. The neighborhood had a bohemian vibe, colorful street murals, quirky boutiques and hip-looking restaurants.
Devlin’s place was a small shotgun row house on a residential street with a driveway alongside. They parked two doors down across the street.
Charlie dug out two sets of plastic gloves from the box she’d taken from the hospital and handed some to Aiden. “So we don’t leave any prints.”
Putting them on, he said, “You really do have quite the criminal mind.”
“What can I say? I’m a product of my environment.”
“It’s been useful.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, filling her with warmth.
For the first time in her life, she wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed about growing up in foster care and group homes. Even though Aiden had had a picture-perfect home with a loving mother and devoted father, he had a way of seeing her, accepting her, that made her feel valued and special.
They got out of the car, carrying their overpriced weapons, and crept around the long, narrow home. Red security storm doors were on the front and back, where there was also a small patio.
“Please tell me you learned how to pick a lock, too,” Aiden said.
Charlie shrugged. “I did, but it’s not like I have the right tools on me. We should try a window.”
They did, but they were all locked.
“I’ll have to break a windowpane,” Aiden said.
That was when she noticed the aluminum sill. It was easily breakable. “No. Too risky. Someone could hear the glass breaking. I think I can jimmy it open.”
She shoved the flat edge of the crowbar between the window and the sill. As she leveraged the pane up, Aiden pushed. The sash latch gave way and the window slid open.
He gave her a boost, with her foot on his palms, and she hoisted herself up the frame and climbed inside. Aiden followed behind her and they closed the window.
The houses on the street had historic charm on the outside, but inside, this one had been renovated with high-end finishes and stainless-steel appliances.
It was a straightforward two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath home. The living room flowed into the dining room and on to the kitchen.
They split up and searched the place. Aiden took the master bedroom and the other one set up as an office/guest room.
Charlie started in the kitchen. There was nothing hidden in the fridge or freezer. No false backs in the cupboards, no fake tins of coffee, nothing hidden in the jars of flour or sugar. No voids behind the wallboards.
Next, she checked the dining room and living room. No loose boards in the hardwood floor, no hollowed-out books. Nothing in the sofa cushions, either.
She blew out a frustrated breath and spun around to see what she might’ve missed.
On the wall in the dining room hung some pictures. Most of the photos were of one man surrounded by nature. Frank Devlin.
He knew their faces and names and now they knew his, too.
Early to midforties. Six-two. Athletic build. Rugged. A thick head of sandy brown hair. Eyes so intense they were chilling.
In one photo, Devlin held up a huge fish by a lake. Another was of him kneeling beside a dead deer in a meadow covered in mist. Two teenagers stood in front of a cabin in the next one. A boy with his arm around a younger girl’s shoulders. They resembled one another. Brother and sister.
She stared at the last picture. Five men, smiling, standing together behind a bar. A backlit sign read The Merry Men.
Robin Hood’s band of outlaws. Mighty brazen of them.
“I’ve got nothing,” Aiden said, walking out of the office. “Not even a laptop. Any luck?”
“I think this is Devlin.” She pulled out the cell phone and took a picture of the photo with the men. They looked like standard-issue tough guys: hardened, brawny, merciless beneath the smiles. Badges and guns on their hips. Devlin had his right hand on the shoulder of the man in the middle. “There’s five of them here. But we were hit by a team of four. What if one of them stayed behind?”
“Only one way to find out. Are you up for a drink?”
“Always.”
* * *
A 411 CALL GOT them the address. The parking lot of The Merry Men was almost full. Only a few spots left at the far end by a wall. The idea of getting blocked in didn’t sit well with Aiden.
He parked across the street. “Stay here and keep it running.”
“Come again?”
“One or more cops own that bar. That’ll make it a cop bar.”
She turned in her seat and faced him. “And?”
“Bars are already a weapons-rich environment with glasses, longneck beer bottles, even heavier wine bottles.” You could club a person with one. “If they have pool tables, that’ll mean pool cues.”
Charlie’s brow furrowed. “I have been in a bar. I’m familiar.”
“But in that bar, most of the patrons are going to be packing heat, and we can’t stroll in with a crowbar and baseball bat. We need answers about a dirty cop. Answers no one inside is going to willingly give. If the car is running, it’ll be easier to make a quick getaway if push comes to shove.”
Her frown deepened. “Why am I supposed to be the one left in the car? And if you give me ‘it’s an order’ or ‘I outrank you’ crap, I think we’ll have to arm wrestle for it.”
He suppressed a chuckle. “I can take you in an arm wrestle.”
“Not the way I play.”
Which meant no rules. Winning by any means necessary.
Would she throw a fist to his groin?
“Follow the order without giving me grief,” he said, wanting to avoid an arm wrestle. “We can debate it later.” If it came down to a fistfight, he’d rather be the only one getting his butt kicked. Spare her a beatdown from a bunch of cops.