Undercover Engagement (Private Pleasures 5)

And about half a foot of fabric. “I thought we weren’t going for whore. This outfit risks landing me in court.”

“This outfit is going to get every man at the bar to sit up and take notice. To paraphrase a classic, they’re gonna wanna know your name, and they’re gonna be glad you came.”

“I’m supposed to be off the market.”

“The outfit lets everyone know I better bust my ass to keep you that way. You’re not going to put up with me resting on my laurels—or my big, shiny engagement ring.”

Men were strange creatures. She glanced down at the last two items. “Oh my God.” The lacy black bra-and-panty set her roommate had pawned off on her sat there in tawdry glory. “You went through my underwear?”

“It’s practically outerwear in this case, which makes it one of those devilish details. Keep the boots you were wearing. They’re okay. Best we can do right now.”

The bastard was laughing. She heard it in his voice. “This is not fun—”

“Here.” His hand appeared through the door again, holding an open bottle of beer so cold a thin curl of vapor floated from the mouth.

She took it and managed a perfunctory “Thanks” before sucking down half the bottle.

“It’s just a costume, Eden. A character you’re playing. We both know it’s not who you are. Come on out when you’re decent.”

Eying the clothes, she grimaced. “That would be never, in this getup.”

His chuckle faded as he walked away from the door.

Chapter Six

“Progress, I think,” Marc said into his phone as he sat on the sectional and pulled on his battered brown Frye boots. Adjusting his jeans over the shafts, he added, “Eden made it in just fine and is hitting the ground running, since we’re joining Junior and Lou Ann Tillman at Rawley’s tonight.”

“Good,” Malone replied. “Rawley’s will be busy—Friday night, live music, drink specials. Earl Rawley owns the pub, but he’s getting up in years. Chances are his only son, Jeb, will be working the bar tonight. He’s been taking a more active role in the day-to-day running of the place over the last year and seems to have a knack for it.”

“Eden mentioned they had some trouble last month. Unidentified man attacked the girlfriend of one of Buchanan’s officers behind the pub?”

“Yeah. There’s detail about that in your packet, but to sum it up in a tough nutshell, Roxy Goodhart—she’s performing there tonight, by the way—went out back one Wednesday evening in late July to take a break, overheard some idjit beating a stray dog, and intervened. A scuffle ensued. She took a knock to the head and clocked out. The idjit hit the road before anyone even knew she was out there. Jeb found her a few minutes later, by our estimate, when he hauled a load of empties to the bin. She didn’t see much, and he saw nothing, but we included copies of their statements for your reading pleasure. All in all, though, that sort of thing is rare for Rawley’s. We deal with the occasional altercation between over-lubricated locals, but that’s about it. Earl sprang for better lights and a security camera, and there have been no further incidents.”

“Random?”

“Maybe,” Malone conceded. “Roxy was having some problems with an ex-manager at the time, so it could have been related to that, although Buchanan’s team says no. You and Eden stick together tonight, ’cause we have ourselves a known unknown when it comes to that incident. But spending some time at Rawley’s with Junior and Lou Ann should get you personally introduced to the livelier half of town.”

“That’s my thinking. We need to start circulating, because there is a whole lot of nothing happening on Tillman’s crew.” He walked over to the front door and looked out the fan-shaped decorative glass at eye level. Eden had moved her car. Good. “The guys punch in, do their work—good work—and punch out. If there’s a connection to be made there, I’m not finding it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Buchanan trusts Longfoot. Nobody associated with him is a person of interest at this time. Putting you on his crew just made for a convenient cover.”

“Hmm.” Convenient wasn’t a word he would have used. There was nothing convenient about being on a jobsite by seven in the morning or spending the better part of the day working like a dog, but whatever. He thought of Eden in the bathroom getting ready for tonight. They all had their crosses to bear on this op. “Out of that livelier half of town, anybody you think we should focus on?”

“That’s probably a better question for Buchanan, as he and his officers interact more with the Bluelick residents, but he did tell me earlier today that this week one of his cops handed a guy named Kenny Whelan his third misdemeanor possession charge as a consequence of a traffic stop. When Whelan opened the glove compartment of his vehicle to find proof of insurance, the goods rolled out into plain view. Specifically, onto the lap of Thomas ‘Dobie’ Dobbins, who occupied the passenger seat at the time. Mr. Dobbins has two misdemeanor possession charges on his record.”

He wandered back to the living room and shot a glance at the closed bathroom door. “History of violence for either?”

“None whatsoever. I do know these jerkoffs. They’re harmless. Bored, aimless potheads who could both use a kick in the pants, but not a mean bone or half a brain between them. Both live with their folks—law-abiding, if somewhat lax, parents—so they’re not growing their own. Those two are definitely buying from someone.”

“We’ll try to find out who,” Swain assured his boss.

Malone cleared his throat. “How are things going with Officer Brixton?”

The bathroom door swung open at the same moment. “Oh, we’re doin’ fine. We’ve established a foundation of mutual respect and”—he swallowed hard as she stepped into view—“admiration. Holy—”

Her eyes fired warning shots. “Not a smile. Not a smirk. Not a single laugh, or I will kick your misogynistic ass all the way back to the swamp it crawled out of.”

On the other end of the line, Malone laughed. “Yeah. I hear the respect and admiration loud and clear. Good luck, Deputy Swain.”