Nearly every table was full, not that I was surprised. The place had always been popular. I scanned the bar, looking for my source.
Relief washed through me when I spotted Bobby behind the counter, working a cocktail shaker.
An empty barstool sat several feet away from him, so I slid onto it.
“Be with you in a minute,” he called, pouring the cocktail into a glass.
I didn’t respond. I was too busy fighting the sudden, sharp desire to order a whiskey.
My mouth watered at the thought of the warm burn it would give me as I swallowed the first sip. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that sitting in a bar would tempt me? Had it occurred to James? Was that the real reason he’d wanted to come in with me?
I quickly dismissed the thought. He mostly wanted to make sure I was safe. I had to grudgingly admit that if the roles were reversed, I’d want to do the same.
Like any good partner would. There was no reason to read anything more into it. On either side.
A few minutes later, Bobby walked over and stopped in front of me, his face going blank the second he recognized me.
I gave him a warm smile. “Hey. Long time no see.”
I’d met Bobby about five years ago while working a homicide case. He’d witnessed a murder, but he’d refused to testify at the trial. Keith had tried to pressure him, but we’d had two other witnesses, so I’d convinced him to let it go. Keith had grudgingly dropped it and moved on.
But I hadn’t forgotten.
Unlike Keith, I hadn’t wanted to pressure Bobby to testify. I was more interested in why he’d refused.
He’d been working at a different bar back then, and I’d stopped by midafternoon on a weekday and seated myself at the counter. The place was mostly empty, so it only took Bobby a few seconds to notice me. And even fewer to recognize me. His face had flushed with anger and he shouted, “Can’t you people take no for an answer?”
I’d quickly assured him I wasn’t there to try to change his mind. In fact, I was there to make sure he was okay.
His face had paled and he’d looked like he was about to pass out.
“Did someone threaten you, Bobby?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“When people don’t want to testify on a case, it’s either because they don’t want the hassle or they’re scared.”
Keith had presumed Bobby was an asshole who couldn’t be bothered to do his civic duty, and I’d understood why. Bobby was in his early twenties with visible tattoos, six-foot-two, and around two-twenty. He looked like he should be the intimidator, not the intimidated.
But people weren’t always scared just for themselves.
“You here to psychoanalyze me?” he’d asked, a vein bulging on his forehead.
“No,” I’d assured him. “Like I said, I’m here to make sure you’re okay.”
“Why would you care?” he’d demanded, his anger rising.
“Because I became a cop to help people. That means it’s my job to care.”
“Tell that to the cop that arrested my little sister,” he’d said in disgust.
It took some coaxing, but he’d finally told me his sister had been arrested for possession of pot.
Contempt had covered his face. “It wasn’t hers.” He’d shook his head. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinkin’—That’s what they all say—but it really wasn’t. It was her so-called friend Alyssa’s. The cops showed up at a park where a bunch of teenagers were partying. My just-turned-eighteen-year-old sister had been drinking, and she panicked. She knew our parents would lose their minds if she got arrested for underage drinking.” He had exhaled hard, like the memory still had him by the throat. “She had a bottle of vodka in her backpack, and she was stupid enough to think the cops wouldn’t see her pick it up and toss it into the woods. Only she was also trying to be a good friend, so she tossed Alyssa’s too.”
“And Alyssa’s backpack had the pot,” I’d finished.
“Yep,” he’d said bitterly. “But the police didn’t care. They saw her touch it, so she got charged with a felony. It didn’t matter who it really belonged to. They just wanted an arrest.”
