“I can give you two hundred for it,” she said, naming a price that was deliberately insulting.
His eyes narrowed.“Two hundred?That’s ridiculous.This is worth at least a thousand.”
“Maybe at auction.But this is a pawnshop, not Sotheby’s.I’ve got overhead.I need profit margin.Two hundred.”
She watched him calculate.Whatever game he was playing, he needed this sale to happen.Needed to establish himself on her surveillance cameras, create a relationship.Which meant he was setting her up for something.
“Three hundred,” he countered.
“Two fifty.Because I’m feeling generous.”
“Fine.”The word came through gritted teeth.
She slid a pawnshop form across the counter.“Need your ID and this filled out.”
He pulled out his wallet—driver’s license with a Chicago address.Walker Barnes, twenty-four years old.She made a copy, watched him fill out the form with handwriting that was too neat, too practiced.
“So, Walker Barnes,” she said, deliberately casual.“What brings you from Chicago to Laurel Valley?”
“Fresh start.”He didn’t look up.
“Isn’t that what we’re all looking for.”
He finished the form, pushed it back.She reviewed it, stapled the ID copy, pushed an ink pad toward him.“Thumbprint.”
He hesitated—just a fraction of a second, but enough to confirm everything she suspected.Then he pressed his thumb down, took his cash, and tried for casual.
“Actually,” he said, leaning against her counter like they were old friends.“I heard you might’ve bought another music box recently.Similar to this one.Old, wooden, nice craftsmanship.Thought maybe I could buy it from you.”
Mia kept her expression neutral.“Where’d you hear that?”
“Around.Small town.Word travels.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”Her voice went cold.“And even if I did have another music box, I wouldn’t be discussing my inventory with you.That’s not how this works.”
“Look, lady, I don’t think you understand?—”
“No,youdon’t understand.”She cut him off, voice dropping to that dangerous register cops learned to recognize.“You walk in here with a fabricated story about your dead grandmother.You sell me a music box that may or may not be stolen.Now you’re fishing for information about merchandise I may or may not have.That’s not legitimate business.That’s entrapment.”
His face flushed red.“Listen?—”
“I spotted you as a cop the second you got out of your truck,” she said flatly.“Go back to patrol.Undercover work is going to get you killed.You’re terrible at it.”
He made a rude gesture.
“No thanks.I don’t date rookies.”Her smile was all teeth.“And I especially don’t help cops who come into my shop trying to run game.Whatever you’re fishing for, you won’t find it here.Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
She turned back to her inventory, dismissing him.
He tried one more time—hands up, innocent smile.“Maybe we got off on the wrong foot, but you got it all wrong.I’m not a cop, and I don’t know what you’re talking about as far as deals.Just thought we could help each other out.”
“Where’s your handler?”She didn’t look up.“I figured the big dogs would’ve come to rescue you by now.You’re drowning and you don’t even know it.”
His eyes went mean—narrow slits that showed her a glimpse of the man under the rookie mask.Maybe he was older than she’d thought.But she hadn’t been wrong about the temper.
“You’re something else, you know that?”he said.
“Save it.”She looked up, met his glare with her own.“You want advice?Go back to patrol before you get someone killed—probably yourself.I spotted you as a cop from my surveillance cameras.If I can see it, everyone can see it.”
