“Let’s get our money’s worth.” Taylor took another sip, then set her glass down and slowly spun it with her fingers. She looked like she had something on her mind. After a moment she said, “You know, I was miserable at Fort Campbell.”
Brodie didn’t respond.
“Steve was a good partner, and we were clearing cases. That should have been enough. But it wasn’t.” She looked at Brodie. “And I realized… everything that happened on our last mission together, it made me feel something I hadn’t felt since my time in Afghanistan. The way everything was… heightened.”
Brodie looked her in the eyes. “I understand.”
At first glance, Maggie Taylor was disciplined, rational, and career-driven. That’s how most people in CID would have described her. But on a closer look, she was a person who rushed headlong into danger in a way that was more than just brave, and she made a lot of risky decisions—not the least of which was agreeing to be Scott Brodie’s partner.
He asked, “When you told your people at Fort Campbell that you were leaving to take another case with me, what did they say?”
She hesitated. “I was told that it was a career-making case with a career-killing partner.” She added, “And that Colonel Dombroski was a fool for giving this case to you, and it was only because of his blind loyalty to you that you have not been relieved of duty.”
Brodie didn’t respond.
“I’m sorry, Scott. I didn’t want to tell you that.”
“Maggie, I wouldn’t have lasted this long if I gave a shit what people say.” He picked up his drink and said, “Here’s to dragging you down with me.”
They clinked glasses and drank.
Taylor said, “This morning, sitting through that briefing, I was thinking that this was going to turn out just how we feared, we’d be spectators in our own investigation. And the only thing that made me feel better was the thought that at least I’m with you.” She looked at him. “Someone who understands what’s missing.”
Brodie looked at her. They were two vets screwed up by two different wars. And even though they’d traded their combat fatigues for civilian suits, they hadn’t left the military—and hadn’t really left the war either. Brodie knew this about himself, and now Taylor was figuring it out.
Taylor stared off, a bit glassy-eyed now. Then she turned back to him and said, “I want to dance.”
“I can’t imagine that feeling.”
Taylor smiled at him. “C’mon, Scott. Live a little.”
“I live at the bar.”
She got up and put her hand on his arm. He grudgingly got off the stool and they walked through the red curtain and down a dark hallway that opened to a large room with a dance floor and a stage at the back. Onstage, a twenty-something Turkish hipster guy was on electric guitar, cranking out a vaguely Middle Eastern groove. A young woman in a tight T-shirt, miniskirt, and fishnets was cooing some breathy lyrics in Turkish into the microphone. Behind them, a floppy-haired drummer tapped out a down-tempo beat. Multicolored spotlights pulsed above the stage and on the dance floor.
“This is great,” said Taylor.
“It’s something.”
They walked onto the dance floor where a few dozen people were dancing or shuffling to the beat as they drank. It was a diverse, all-ages crowd. A gray-haired Turkish man who was high on life or maybe something else was really getting into it with a young German girl.
Taylor closed her eyes and started moving her body to the music, then looked up at Brodie and said, “C’mon, partner.”
He started dancing. Taylor looked up at him, the kaleidoscope of colors flashing over her face as she inched closer to him, swaying her hips to the music. She was a good dancer. She smiled at him.
Brodie’s head was swimming from the whiskey and the hypnotic light show. The hooky guitar line and driving drumbeat kept repeating over and over as he and Taylor drew closer to each other. He put his hand on her waist. She had her eyes closed and was feeling the music. The singer let out a high note. Taylor pressed into him.
Over Taylor’s shoulder Brodie noticed a man staring at them across the dance floor. He lost sight of the guy in the crowd for a moment, then spotted him again, skirting the edge of the crowd and watching them. He wasMiddle Eastern–looking, mid-thirties, short in stature, and wearing a black bomber jacket and dark pants.
The music changed to something more up-tempo, and Taylor kept pace. Brodie maintained a visual on the guy, who was momentarily lit up by the club lights as he texted something on his phone and then brought his gaze back to them.
Well, things were getting interesting on this dance floor in more ways than one. Brodie pulled Taylor close and whispered in her ear, “We might have a tail.” He led Taylor toward the edge of the dance floor and said, “Back to the front.”
They walked quickly up the hallway to the front room and sat at the bar. Brodie eyed the red curtain partition. The barmaid asked if they wanted another drink and Brodie declined.
Suddenly the door to the street swung open and Brodie noticed three men entering. They wore black topcoats and black pants and looked Middle Eastern. They glanced around the dimly lit lounge. One of the men fixed his eyes on Brodie and Taylor and said something to the other two, who followed his gaze.
Brodie said to Taylor, “I don’t think they’re here for the music.”
