She reached for her mug and took a sip. “Can’t I be nice to you once in a while?”
He laughed, hard. “Yeah, I guess you could but you never do. You aren’t the warm and fuzzy type.”
She considered his assessment and didn’t disagree. “Rick, I brought cupcakes. I’m not making a political statement.” She plucked a pink cake from the box and took a bite.
He eyed her an extra beat before selecting a vanilla with extra chocolate icing. He bit into it and his eyes closed, as he clearly savored the taste. “I don’t know why you decided to be nice but I’m glad you did.”
She arched a brow, growing slightly annoyed with him now. “You make me sound heartless.”
Silent, he popped the last of the cake in his mouth and grabbed another one. “Not heartless. Strategic.”
She glanced toward the boxes in the living room. Of all her three brothers Rick was the hardest to manipulate. “How’s it going with the Dawson files?”
He stared at her over the rim of his coffee cup and for a moment didn’t speak. She thought he’d stonewall her like Deke but finally he said, “Slow. Lots of details.”
She sensed a tiny opening. “Buddy liked to document.”
“That he did.”
Surrendering to feelings was hard for her. Most days she kept a wisecracking façade that made her feel safe. But now she couldn’t summon one tart remark. “You think Jeb killed her?”
He leaned back in his chair. “There’s a mountain of evidence against the guy. I would have arrested him.”
She glanced into the milky white coffee, grateful and frightened of his honesty. “I can help. I’m pretty good with sifting through data.” Her grin was automatic but not heartfelt. “Deke is not a man to cross.”
“He tries to do what’s best for us all.”
“He’s not Buddy. He isn’t in charge of this family. Hell, he all but ignored us the last decade.” He’d been working. Her mind understood, but her heart cringed at the abandonment.
“You know he couldn’t hang out with us while doing the undercover work. Hell, the job cost him two marriages.”
“His wives were cool. But neither could stand up to the allure of his work.”
He studied her. “That’s why you brought the cupcakes—to talk about Deke?”
If she thought she could play Rick for the fool, she was wrong. She opted for directness. “No, they are a bribe. I want to look at those files.”
“You aren’t here for my winning personality?”
The dry humor in his tone had her swallowing a small smile. “Tell me a tidbit about the case. I know so little since Deke is being Deke. Silent.”
With his thumb, he absently traced the embossed T on his mug. And then slowly and carefully told her the standard details of the case that she’d already found on the Internet.
“Did you hear about the letters?” she asked.
He tossed her another glance as if wondering if he’d been played. “Yeah.”
“You got copies?”
He rose slowly and moved into the living room. He glanced at the pile of papers and plucked out a file. He returned and laid it on the table.
She opened the file and saw the copies of the letters. This time her smile was genuine. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Georgia skimmed her hands over the letters, wanting to devour them.
“You’re going to read those now?” he asked.
“I might have a thought or two to add.”
“You might.”
Doubt lingered behind the word, but she ignored it. Her attention shifted solely to the letters, which she was certain held the key to the secret.
Max Quincy slumped over a shot glass, half-full with an amber liquid. He raised the glass with a trembling hand and slurped the remainder of the liquid before pounding the tumbler hard against the wood bar. “I want another.”
The bartender, a tall burly man with biceps covered in tattoos, glanced up from the register before slamming the till closed. “No more for you, Quincy. You haven’t paid for the last three.”
Frowning, Max struggled to focus his gaze. “I’m good for it. I am. I’ve been out of commission for a couple of weeks. Cut me some slack.”
“Out of commission.” He snorted. “You been in jail selling your latest story to the cops.”
“Maybe, but the money I make I spend here.” Indignation hummed under the slurring words.
The bartender shook his head. “Well, you’ve run through whatever money you had.”
“I’m good for it!”
“No more credit.”
Max stared into the empty depths of his glass and seeing the smallest pool of amber liquid upended it over his mouth. A single drop dripped on his tongue and he greedily lapped it up.
He barely noticed the person sliding onto the bar stool beside him, but he noticed the twenty slid so easily toward the bartender. If only he had that kind of money.
“Two more.”
Licking his lips, Max watched the bartender reach for a bottle and serve up the drinks as he swiped the twenty off the counter. The dim light of the bar danced in the whiskey’s liquid depths.
When a tumbler full of whiskey made it Max’s way he didn’t look up or ask questions. He drank, savoring the exquisite burn against the back of his throat. “Been a long time since I’ve had as good as that. Tastes like spun gold.”
A second glass moved his way. “You looked like you could use a drink.”
“Yeah,” he breathed as he reached for the glass. He held it up to his lips and this time sipped a bit slower. “I’ve lived long enough to know nothing is for free. Nothing. What’s this drink gonna cost me, pal?”
“Call me Baby.”
He glanced sideways catching the edge of a gray hoodie pulled forward. “Sure. What’s the cost, Baby?”
“Not much really. Just a half-hour of your time.”
“Thirty minutes for two drinks.” Max gulped the last of it. “Do I know you?”
“You might.”
He grunted. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for your time.”
“A grand.” His nerves hummed with interest. “What kind of job are we talking about?”
“Simple. Quick.”
A chuckle rumbled in his chest. He might be a drunk but he wasn’t stupid. “If it’s simple and quick then why don’t yo
u do it yourself?”
“If you don’t want the work, I’ll find someone else. There’re lots of guys like you who’d be grateful.”
Max held up his hand realizing the buying power of a thousand dollars was too much to pass up. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I was just asking a question.”
“It’s not the kind of job that comes with questions. You do the job, you get paid and we go our separate ways.”
“So what’s the work?”
“Outside.”
Max drew small circles on the bar with his empty glass. “It’s warm in here.”
“I’ve a full bottle of what you had in my car. It’s yours to drink while we talk.”
Max set the glass aside. “A full bottle?”
“All for you.”
Max staggered behind Baby out of the bar toward the dimly lit side street to a four-door car parked by the curb. The license plates said Tennessee but it was a rental.
A click of the lock and the car door opened. Max slid inside as Baby moved behind the wheel. A twist of a key and the car engine fired and the heater was blowing out warm air. “Your bottle is in the glove box.”
Max snapped the glove box open and all but laughed like a kid on Christmas morning when he saw aged bourbon. He cracked open the top lid and took a long swallow. When he’d finished, he sighed, content as an old alley cat playing with a fat mouse. “So what is the job?”
“It’s easier to show you than to say. I’ll drive us. It’s close by.”
Max eased back against the seat, relaxed. He took another gulp. “How close?”
“Minutes.”
“Sure.” He replaced the cap and cradled his bottle close as the car pulled out of the spot. He watched the night’s lights blend and swirl past him. “I’ve not felt this good in a long time.” His eyes drooped heavy. A snore rumbled in his chest.
When the car stopped Max jostled awake. His head felt heavy and his arms the size of tree trunks. He could barely move.
Baby opened his car door. “Looks like you had a bit of a nap.”
Max opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn’t get the words out.
“A nap is good. I’ll bet you were exhausted. Prison can take it out of a man.”