Split Second

CHAPTER 39

Raven Street, Baltimore

The Texas Range Bar & Grill

Wednesday night

Over the wire, Sherlock wore a soft blue tunic with tight black jeans and black heels. She’d pulled her hair behind her ears, fastened with two gold clips. From her ears dangled gold hoops. There was no wedding ring on her finger.

She thought the wire was a waste of time. What were the odds Kirsten would get past Dillon and even make it inside? And even if she did, the other agents in the bar had eyes on her. As usual, Dillon had insisted, wanting to cover all the bases, anticipating every possible screwup.

She sipped the heavy dark Texas home brew, the specialty of the house called Texas Espresso, and tried to look depressed for the benefit of the four other agents she knew were watching her performance. She hadn’t wanted to miss Lucy and Coop taking Kirsten Bolger and Bruce Comafield down outside the bar, but someone had to be in here, growing mold along with the home brew, just in case.

She hoped Ruth, Dane, Jack, and Ollie, scattered around the bar, were at least enjoying their drinks.

Stop your whining and look depressed. She’d nodded only once to Mrs. Spicer, saw she was lit up bright as a Christmas Santa. She was relieved Kirsten wouldn’t ever get into the bar with Mrs. Spicer; she’d take one gander and know something was up. Sherlock studied the bartender, a thin-as-a-stick young woman with a chipped front tooth, who talked nonstop while she delivered drink orders to three waitresses and never got them wrong or spilled a drop.

She didn’t appear to know who Sherlock really was, and that was a good thing, what with Mrs. Spicer looking fit to burst into song.

Mr. Gator Spicer hadn’t shown himself yet, and that was also a good thing, since they didn’t need a duet. They’d cautioned Mrs. Spicer to simply go about her business and not to pay any attention to Sherlock or the other FBI agents, assured her they would stop Kirsten before she ever got into the bar. She was trying, but they all knew she wouldn’t manage to be discreet.

“You’ve never been in here before,” the bartender said when there was a lull.

“Nope, first time.” Sherlock looked at the faded name tag over the bartender’s left breast—Trisha. Nope, Trisha didn’t have a clue, thankfully. “I was out trying to walk off my mad at my jerk of an ex-boyfriend who stole my beautiful light blue Corvette. It was mine, and it was gorgeous, sexier than Brett Favre’s butt in his Wranglers. I saw your sign and decided it was time for a beer. Or two. Wow, this Texas Espresso has hairy knuckles.”

Trisha poured three more Texas Espressos, lightly shoved the big, thick beer glasses toward a waitress, who scooped them up onto her tray with no wasted motion. Trisha said to Sherlock, “This is a good place for beer, and that’s a bummer for a bartender who lives off tips. I can make a mean martini, and there’s not much call for martinis here. Nope, folk come here to gulp down beers by the dozen, listen to country/western music, and munch on peanuts that have enough salt in them to make you thirsty again. Later on, when they’ve had one too many, they try riding that mechanical bull—his name’s Ivan—and I’ll tell you, old Ivan’s knocked many an urban cowboy on his behind.”

“I can’t believe you got that all out without a breath and still filled two more drink orders,” Sherlock said, and raised her beer glass toward the bartender.

“Yeah, I’m good that way. They used to call it working the bar; now they call it multitasking.”

“How old is Ivan?”

“He’s been here longer than I have. What is that—nine years come December. You don’t look like you’re crazy enough to climb aboard.”

“Give me two more shots of your Texas whoopee, and I might take a ride.” Sherlock sighed. “What I really want to do is drink and mind my own business. Trisha, let me tell you, this beer not only has hairy knuckles, the freaking stuff has big hairy legs.”

Trisha gave her a salute with a white towel. “I guess you’re not used to real Texas beer. Actually, neither am I. When I’m forced to drink some, I drink it even slower than you. I tell Gator—he’s the owner—he probably mixes the beer in his big Texas john.”

“Now, there’s a happy thought.”

An hour passed while Sherlock pretended to sip her hairy beer and listen in on stories told at the bar, mostly by an old man in a cowboy hat who claimed to have lost his shirt in Reno and was living in the backseat of his Chevy Impala, waiting for Lady Luck to knock on his window again.

Kirsten had arrived at eight last night, and it was eight o’clock on the nose. Sherlock went on high alert, hoping she wouldn’t hear gunfire, hoping Dillon would bring that psychopathic killer down hard and fast, without the need for violence, without anyone getting hurt.

Time passed slowly for her after that. Sherlock finally said quietly, “Another half hour gone, and still no Kirsten. Maybe she won’t show tonight.”

Of course, there wasn’t an answer, since she could only transmit. She saw Trisha’s hands flying. The crowd was two-deep now at the bar.

She’d forced herself to take the last drink of her first killer beer when she heard a mellow voice beside her right ear: “Hey, you all alone here?”