“You’re not looking for a job, are you?” he mumbles.
“Would you be interested in the one we’re offering?” Cole replies.
“It depends.”
“On what?” I ask, my tone clipped with thinning patience.
Cole makes a move to withdraw the money. With lightning speed, Randall puts his hand on top of it and gives us another, more compliant smile. “On the complexity of the job, that’s all. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I just need to make sure the pay is worth it.”
“We want information,” I say.
Randall pauses, his eyes darting all over the room. “Are you cops?”
“No,” Toby replies. “Do we look like cops?”
“You look like men who’ve seen some shit,” he says.
Cole cocks his head to the side for a moment. “I’m not going to argue with you there, but no, we’re not cops. We just need to find someone.”
“Who?”
“Have you ever heard of Brett Harvey?” I ask.
Randall takes a moment to think about it, while my gaze wanders across the back bar. Most of the bottles aren’ttop shelf—just the regular stuff one finds in any affordable dive. But below the counter, in glass cabinets, I see the more expensive stuff. Eighteen-year-old whiskey, French cognac, high-end artisanal gin, all under lock and key and not immediately visible. It makes me think they’ve got a handful of wealthy patrons who come in regularly, high rollers with money to burn. Randall keeps their bottles down there like spirited little secrets. And looking at Randall again, his micro-expressions tell me I’m right. Expensive booze isn’t the only secret he’s keeping.
“You’ve heard the name before,” I say, picking up on his hesitation.
“Maybe,” he concedes.
Cole scoffs and slaps Randall’s hand away from the money. “I’ve had enough.”
“Cops were asking about him the other day. They showed his photo around,” Randall rushes to say, and Cole picks up on his greed, sliding the money toward him.
“Okay, and what did you tell them?” Toby asks, his voice low and rumbling.
“Nothing. I don’t know any Brett Harvey,” he says.
Cole tries to take the money away again.
Randall catches his hand. “But I do know the guy in the photo.”
“You mean this guy?” I say and slide the same photo over the bar counter, leaving it next to the cash. Randall nods with newfound enthusiasm, his gaze constantly darting back to the money. “This is Brett Harvey.”
“That’s not his name.”
“Then enlighten us. What is his name?” Cole is at the end of his rope.
“Perry. That’s all I know. He’s been coming around for years, like clockwork, Wednesday and Friday nights. He orders the same drink and the same food every time.”
“Perry,” Cole repeats, then steals a knowing glance at me.
The name doesn’t just ring a bell, it hits me like a punch in the gut because it makes the one connection we didn’t want to make, the one connection we hoped never to have to make. It unravels deeply unpleasant and dangerous implications, not just for Willow, but also for our entire family.
“That’s right,” Randall says. “I don’t know him that well. We just talk once in a while when the bar isn’t too busy. He gave me a couple of odds jobs, too, one last year and another before Christmas.”
“What was the job before Christmas?” Toby asks and adds another wad of cash next to the first one.
We’re on to something, and we’ve got plenty of cash to spare. All we need is self-control and composure, because I have a feeling it’s about to get uglier and uglier as Randall tells us more.
