I flip over to Monday Night Football and head for the kitchen. Emi wasn’t lying about her “big story.” Fowler practically threatened her before he stormed off. Piece of shit.
I could see the Empress Hotel construction site from my physical therapist’s office. They tore down the old community center while I was fightin’ to get my strength back on the treadmill. Every week, I had to fight my way through the protestors to get a rideshare.
Sliding a pan of frozen lasagna into the oven, I pick up my cell phone and text my brother.
Jasper: Did you watch the news tonight? Emmylou Marsh is going after that big developer, Eugene Fowler. He’s dirty as fuck. You ever hear his name mentioned in the same breath as the cartel?
One of the construction workers in the background while Emi was interviewing Fowler looked a hell of a lot like the guy who shot the gas line all those months ago. I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to this story than bribes and kickbacks.
It’s none of my damn business, but when I haven’t heard from AJ by the time the lasagna’s ready, I reach out to the only other person in the Department of Public Safety who might take my call.
Parker Elmore picks up on the first ring. Without her, I wouldn’t know anything about my brother anymore. During the endless days I spent in the hospital—after AJ walked out—Elmore checked up on me. Since then, we’ve had coffee once a month. She tells me how ornery my brother is, and I let her vent without gettin’ herself fired—since AJ’s her captain.
“You know anything about Eugene Fowler?”
“Well, hello to you too, sunshine,” she drawls. “Who you askin’ about now?”
“Eugene Fowler. The developer. Emmylou Marsh from Channel 5 is doin’ a story on him. She says he’s dirty as fuck.”
The sounds of silverware and conversation carry over the line. “Oh, she does? And how did you get to talkin’ with Emmylou Marsh?”
“Parker, pay attention. And get somewhere quieter. I need information.” I ignore the oven timer and limp back out to the main room with my phone tucked between my shoulder and my ear.
“Fine. This better?” she asks. Now, all I hear is some light traffic. “Spill it, Jasper. Is Emmylou Marsh as beautiful in person as she is on TV?”
“She’s drop dead gorgeous. But I didn’t talk to her about Eugene Fowler. I watched her story on the six o’clock news tonight. I need to know if he has any cartel ties.”
“You need to know? Jas, you’re retired. I can’t give you details on an active case. Don’t ask me to.”
The call drops, but I got what I needed. There is a case involving Eugene Fowler. I sure hope Emi knows what she’s gettin’ herself into.
The lasagna burned to a crisp while I was talkin’ to Elmore—and tryin’ to figure out if what I learned warranted a visit to Channel 5 News. I worry Emi’s in over her head, but she’s a grown-ass woman—and a damn good reporter. If I try to get her to back off the story, she’d probably shove my hat somewhere the sun don’t shine. I’d deserve it, too.
So I head for one of the quieter sports bars off of Sixth Street. The one with the best nachos in town.
Most of the tables are taken. There’s only a single two-person booth close to the door. I’m heads down staring at the menu when a burst of cold air stirs the napkin in front of me. Seconds later, a shadow flickers in the remnants of my peripheral vision.
“Jasper?” Emi—no makeup, her hair mussed from the wind, and cheeks tinged pink—stares at me like she’s seeing a ghost. “What are you doing here?”
“A man’s gotta eat. Didn’t expect to see you in a place like this.”
Her eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Fuck. Boot, meet mouth. I rub a hand over my short beard with a sigh. “That I’m an ass? I just meant?—“
Her laughter shocks me. “Jasper, relax. I’m off the clock. Can’t you tell?” She waves her hand up and down her body, and shit. No makeup, black yoga pants and a soft blue sweater, tennis shoes… This is the real Emi, and she’s fucking gorgeous. “I get takeout here every couple of weeks. Their enchilada plate is to die for.”
I don’t know whether to be relieved she ain’t meeting someone or disappointed she’s only here for takeout. Sweeping my gaze around the bar, I nod at the bench across from me. “Enchiladas are better hot. It’s full up in here, but that seat’s empty. If you’d like to join me.”
Emi plays with a lock of her hair, twisting it around her index finger. “You don’t mind?”
“Nope. Though, I don’t get out much. Or talk to many people. My ‘polite conversation’ skills are a little rusty.”
With a chuckle, she tosses her bag into the corner of the booth and slides in across from me. “You’re in luck, then. Because I talk to people for a living. I’ll ease you back into it.”
Fuck. This isn’t gonna end well. She’s the most beautiful—and successful—woman I’ve met in a long damn time. One slip up, and she’ll walk right out of here and never give me the time of day again.
The server comes to take our order—an enchilada plate for her and loaded nachos for me. She asks for a club soda, so I give up on the beer I was planning and stick to water.
