Severe Clear (Stone Barrington 24)

“Sean, this lady would like a Laphroaig on the rocks, my tab.”

“Sure thing.” There was the sound of ice hitting a glass, then of glass hitting the bar, then liquid striking ice. The result was set down in front of the young woman.

“I reckon that took about twenty seconds,” Herbie said. “That should get me more than the benefit of the doubt.”

“You’re right,” she said. “You can ask me two questions.”

“One: May I have the sixty-second version of your biography? Two: Will you have dinner with me?” He watched her expression, which did not change. “I am reliably informed that there is a restaurant at the rear of this establishment.”

“Okay,” she said, “here goes.” She took a deep breath: “Born in New York City twenty-nine years and two months ago, educated in the public schools and at Columbia University, followed by one year of Columbia Law School: boring. Joined the NYPD as a patrol officer, served four years, quit when I didn’t make detective, went to work for a security company called Strategic Services for three years, then quit to become a P.I. That’s the twenty-second version—you’ll have to pry the rest out of me over dinner.” She raised her glass, then took a long, grateful swig of the single-malt scotch. “I’m hungry. How long will it take you to get a table?”

“Follow me,” Herbie said, tossing two twenties on the bar and leading the way aft. A moment later they were wedged into a corner of the crowded dining room. She polished off her drink and raised her glass. “Join me in another?”

Herbie instructed a waiter, and the drinks appeared. He raised his glass. “I know that single-malt scotch is delicious,” he said, “but it will eventually eat your liver.”

“You worry about your liver, I’ll worry about mine,” she replied. “What else do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with your name.”

“Harp O’Connor,” she said. “Call me Harpie or Harpo and I’ll show you that kick of mine in a painful place.”

“I perceive that you are Irish.”

“You are very perceptive. Both sides. I’m first generation. My mother is a nurse, my father, a bartender who owns the bar.”

“Why aren’t you drinking in his place?”

“The surveillance there is intrusive, and the old man won’t let me have more than one drink. And he’ll eighty-six any man I talk to.”

“All good reasons for drinking somewhere else,” Herbie said.

“Your turn, Herb.”

“Fisher, and I don’t like extensions of my first name, either. Born in Brooklyn thirtyish years ago, played hooky from the public schools, followed by NYU Law School.”

“What happened to college?” she asked.

“I finessed that.”

“How’d you get into law school without pre-law?”

“I passed the bar. That impressed the admissions committee enough to allow me to enter. I finished in two years with a three-point-nine GPA.”

“Okay, so you’re smart. Are you employed?”

“I’m a senior associate at the firm of Woodman & Weld.”

“Do they give you anything responsible to do there?”

“One of my clients is your former employer, Strategic Services, whose CEO, Michael Freeman, gave me the business.”

“Mike Freeman is a smart guy,” Harp said. “One of the reasons I left was that I couldn’t get anywhere near him.”

“You seem to have a history of quitting when your employers won’t give you responsibility quickly enough.”

“Well put. I decided I’d be happier if I had all the responsibility. That’s what being self-employed is all about.”

“Why a P.I.?”