“She’s bolder, for sure,” Toby chuckles, “but I’m not complaining.”
“No, it’s something else. Something she’s not telling us. I told you, the mark of a good woman?—”
“Whatever it is, she’ll tell us when she’s ready,” I say, cutting him off. “You, of all people, should know what that means.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I have no intention of coaxing it out of her. I was only making sure I’m not the only one who noticed it.”
“You’re not,” I say. “We have a bigger issue to deal with, however.”
Toby nods in agreement. “Her safety.”
“That’s right,” I reply. “There haven’t been any more threatening messages. She’s been safe, probably because Jamie has been staying with her. The guy won’t let her out of his sight.”
“He’s the definition of a good friend,” Cole smiles.
“We can’t put her safety all on him, though.” Toby sighs and pours himself another cup of coffee. “We need to get ahead of this before another surprise pops up, because the next surprise might end up hurting Willow, or worse.”
“They tracked the pickup truck to an abandoned car lot,” I say.
Going over the last handful of texts I got from our friend, Detective Hornby, it’s clear the police don’t have enough information yet. They’re picking up leads, but none of them had led anywhere concrete.
“No prints, nothing usable, right?” Cole replies.
“Nothing.”
“Of course. Brett Harvey, or whatever his name is, is annoyingly cautious.”
“Hornby is still looking into it,” I say. “They don’t have any recent photos of the guy to compare. An age approximation did show uncanny resemblance, but Hornby isn’t convinced yet.”
My phone rings. The detective’s name pops up on the screen.
“Speak of the devil,” Toby mutters.
I take the call and find myself breathing with strange relief upon finally hearing something useful for once. When I put the phone down, I find Cole and Toby staring at me, each on the edge of their seat, gripping their mugs so tightly the ceramic might crack in their hands.
“Facial recognition software turned up a few more leads,” I say, “for Brett Harvey. Nothing for Perry Jackson. The latter is a ghost. The former, not so much.”
“They’ve got recent stills of the guy?” Cole asks.
“Yes, in Hoboken from two nights ago. Apparently, he’s a regular at Lucky’s Irish Pub on 67th and Braeden Avenue. The cops struck out with the patrons there, probably because they’re cops. He thinks we might be able to get more intel.”
“As civilians, sure,” Toby says, then raises an eyebrow at me. “But I’m not letting you walk into Hoboken like you did in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Mock my style all you want,” Ishoot back.
Cole chuckles lightly. “We’re all going this time. I’ll text Jamie to come pick Willow up when she wakes up.”
A few hours later, my brothers and I dress down and head into Hoboken in a rental car, a dark blue sedan that fits in a little better with the other cars parked along the sidewalk. Hornby’s advice was pretty clear—don’t attract attention, blend in, keep it short and sweet with everyone we talk to.
That turned out to be easier said than done, because as soon as we walk into Lucky’s, I feel the tension rising in the air. The sour, suspicious looks on the handful of patrons who grace the bar just before noon on a Saturday are all directed our way.
“And you said the Terrace at Charleston’s Lounge was too raggedy,” Toby says.
His jab makes me smile. “Pardon me for having discerning tastes.”
“Discerning or elitist?”
“Look alive, you two,” Cole cuts in. “There’s room for us at the bar.”
