Dylan listened to the ring impatiently until it clicked over to the dispatcher’s voice.
“What’s your emergency?” she asked.
“This is Dylan Moffat,” he said. His teeth had started to chatter, but he still got it out. “I’ve got a thirty-something male with contusions and penetrating injuries to the chest and stomach at the Just-as-High on Coptic and Sedgeway. He’s also showing signs—“
The man grabbed Dylan’s arm with hard, desperate fingers. His grip was so tight that the pain made Dylan drop the phone. The screen flickered as the tinny voice of the dispatch asked for him to come back.
“I came to… tell you,” the man slurred out. His eyes were unfocused, the pupils mismatched. “Something… happened. He’s gone. None of us can find him…”
He forced Dylan’s hand over and pressed something cold and hard into his palm.
“You have to keep it safe,” he rasped out. “Hide it… for him. Promise.”
Dylan tried to twist his arm free, but he couldn’t.
“OK,” he blurted. “I promise. I’ll hide it.”
The man’s face went slack with relief. He sagged down into the Chevy’s roof and closed his eyes, his breathing stuttering. Dylan looked down at his hand, at what the man had given him.
His grandad’s watch lay on his palm, the dented metal and scratched face and initials scratched into the metal backing. Without thinking, he closed his hand around the watch and shoved it into his pocket.
Then he picked up the phone and lifted it back to his ear.
“He’s unconscious,” he reported in a dull voice. “and has significant blood loss. I need an ambulance here ASAP.”
Chapter Two
Somersetdidn’tusuallyworkbehind the bar, but he thought he could handle a rush hour of one cop. He slid two glasses—mostly clean—onto the dark, scarred wood counter and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. On the other side of the bar, Detective Lund unzipped her heavy winter jacket, pulled her gloves off, and stuffed them into her pocket.
“So what the fuck happened last night?” she asked.
“Isn’t it your job to tell me?” Somerset asked as he twisted the cap off the whiskey bottle. He poured a shot of cheap liquor into both glasses. “You’re the cop.”
Lund boosted herself onto the barstool. She gave the glasses a disapproving look. “I don’t drink,” she said.
“I didn’t offer,” Somerset said.
He tossed back the first whiskey. It hit the back of his throat with harsh, scratchy heat that ran down into his chest. He grimaced in appreciation and set the empty glass on the bar with a firm click. That’s why he liked the cheap shit, he didn’t have to wait for the burn. He picked up the second glass and held it loosely between his fingers.
“It’s not even 8:00 am. yet,” Lund said.
“And you’re not my mother,” Somerset said. “Not that she’d care.”
Lund cupped her hands in front of her mouth to breathe onto chilled fingers. Then she rubbed her hands together. The tip of her nose and her cheeks were rosy with the cold, and strands of dark hair curled damply around her forehead and ears.
“Do you have any tea?” she asked.
Somerset took a drink of whiskey. “It’s a bar, not Starbucks,” he said.
“You know, we could be friends,” Lund said with a sigh. She wiggled her index finger in the air between the two of them. “This benefits us both.”
Somerset snorted. “This?” He mimicked her gesture. “Is less hassle than killing you for what you know. For now.”
It was getting close, though. When Lund had first found out what Somerset was—or thought she had—she’d been more scared of things that went bump in the night. All she’d wanted was for him to keep the peace on her beat.
Lund looked sour. “Why can’t you make this easy?”
“It’s not in my nature.” Somerset finished the whiskey and set the glass down next to its mate. Close enough to kiss. “I take it you think whatever happened last night had something to do with my side of the tracks?”
