“Christ, Feeney, I’m not going to drink that, and I’m sure as hell not going to drink before I run this op.”
“You’re going to swish it around in your mouth and spit it out.” He held a glass out along with the bottle of Irish. “You want them to think you’re drunk enough to fall for this crap, walk into their half-assed trap? You should smell drunk.”
“Good point.”
She took it, swished it, and while swishing dabbed some on her throat like perfume to make him laugh again. Then spat. Leaning forward she huffed out an exaggerated breath in his face. “How’s that?”
“You’ll do. Are we having cow meat burgers tomorrow?”
“Probably.”
“I could go for a fat one. How about pie? Is there going to be pie?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lemon meringue pie. That’s what you want at a summer barbecue. Maybe strawberry shortcake.”
“I’ll get right on that—as soon as I avoid being murdered.”
“My granny used to make lemon meringue pie. It got these little beads of sugar on the meringue. She could bake a goddamn pie, my granny.”
“Yum. Dudley’s heading toward the church.” She rose, practiced pulling open the jacket, pulling her weapon. “That’ll work. All teams hold positions. Dallas, on the move.”
“You ought to wobble some, in case they get eyes on you.”
She stepped out the back. “That’s no problem in these shoes.”
“Good hunting.”
She shot him a grin as she shut the door.
She took her time, played her attitude in her head. She spotted her cops, but she knew where to look. She staggered into the church.
He’d lit some of the fake candles, she noted, so the light shifted and swayed. She took a couple more unsteady steps until she stood in the aisle formed by the back pews. “Dudley, you asshole.” Her voice echoed. “You better not be wasting my time.”
“I’m here.” His voice shook. She supposed he hoped it sounded fearful, but she caught the edge of laughter. “I—I wanted to be sure it was you. That he didn’t follow me.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. I get paid to protect the city’s assholes.”
“It can’t be enough.” He eased out of the shadows at the far end of the church.
“You’re damn skippy. It’s not the pay, it’s the power. Nothing like watching suspects piss themselves when I lean on them. You got five minutes,” she said as Carmichael murmured in her ear that Moriarity was on his way.
“You can’t know what it means to me that you’d come like this. I know you’re under terrible pressure.”
“That’s what drinking’s for. And screw pressure. I close this one, I’ll be on-screen for weeks. Maybe get another book out of it. Couple of rich assholes like you and Moriarity, the media’s going to slather all over me.”
“Sly’s the one.” He moved toward her, stopped again. “I covered for him, but I didn’t know what he’d done. If I had . . . I didn’t know, not until tonight.”
“You’re eating up your five, Dudley. Lay it out or I’m going to haul you in for annoying an officer. Believe me, I’m not in the mood to haul your ass or mine down to Central.”
Moriarity at the door, she heard in her ear, even as she caught the faint vibration from the ’link in Dudley’s pocket. He slid his hand in.
“Hey, hands where I can see them!” She reached clumsily in her bag.
“I’m sorry.” He tossed his hands up. “I’m nervous. I’m sick at heart. You have to help me!” He grabbed her wrists as if in desperation.
The door burst open behind her. She had to squelch her instinct to defend, staggered instead. Then felt the stunner press to her throat.