Make Me Up (Killer Style 3)

The bartender across the room tossed a dirty towel across his shoulder and stared hard at Cam. There wasn’t much you could do to get kicked out of The Salty Dog that didn’t involve the cops, but not ordering was one of them.

He glanced down at Drea. “What do you want to drink?”

She twisted her lips up and sent a searching look toward the bar. “What kind of wine do they have?”

“The boxed kind.” He took a step toward the bar. “I’ll get you a beer, and then we can figure this out.”

“Make it a Jack and diet Coke.”

“You got it.”

He kept his body angled so he could watch Drea, the door, and the bar’s patrons at the same time. He placed the order before checking his phone for messages. The text from Reggie contained only one word: Call. His gut skittered sideways, but he dialed Reggie’s personal cell instead of his official department cell without his fingers stumbling.

Reggie answered on the first ring. “Where are you?”

He loved Reggie like a brother, but he wasn’t about to give him that info. If Reggie let it slip to the wrong person on the force that Drea was still local, Diamond Tommy would find out. The consequences would be deadly. Sometimes the dirtiest cops looked the cleanest and he wasn’t going to put the burden on Reggie to decide who played for the wrong team. “Why do you need to know?”

“Expedited tox screen came through.”

“What the hell? Those usually take weeks, if not longer.” Twenty-four hours was unheard of. The pressure to put this case to bed must be gold bullion heavy.

“You know the story, money talks—and now I need to talk to Drea. She’s not responding to her phone or answering her front door.”

Cam glanced over to where Drea sat wearing hot pink skinny jeans and a black and white polka dotted tank—an outfit that made it a miracle she couldn’t be spotted from space. “She’s with me.”

“Put her on.”

“Can’t do that.” Wouldn’t do that came closer to the truth.

“That’s impeding an investigation,” Reggie sounded more tired than pissed. No doubt the detective was working off of a few hours of sleep, too much caffeine, and the stress of the brass riding his ass.

“Yep.” Wasn’t the first time he’d helped someone avoid the law.

Reggie cursed under his breath. “You’re going to push it too far one of these days.”

“Probably.”

The bartender put a glass of amber-colored beer and a Jack and Coke down in front of Cam. Drea’s drink had a lemon yellow umbrella in it. Looked like the bartender either had a sense of humor or a strange way of flirting.

“Bring her down to headquarters tomorrow,” Reggie said.

Cam shook his head. “Not unless you tell me what this is about.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you a damn thing. The only reason I’m even talking to you is because we’ve known each other forever. You need to realize what kind of dangerous black widow type you’re messing with.”

He tried to imagine Drea as a black widow, indiscriminately killing her lovers and anyone else who got in her way. The absurdity of it made his beer go down the wrong pipe. After he coughed a lung up, he said, “And?”

“Natasha Orton died after absorbing Tetrodotoxin through her skin. We found trace amounts in the lipstick your girl used when applying the vic’s makeup.”

“What the hell is tetro-whatever?” At least he didn’t have to spell it.

“Tetrodotoxin, brainiac. You can order it online. It’s extracted from pufferfish livers and is virtually undetectable by the victim until it’s too late—then it’s lethal.” Reggie recited the details like he was reading off a list of shit-you-don’t-want-to-fuck-with. “You need to bring her in.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Have you gone total moron?” Reggie practically groaned the question.

Time for a little quid pro quo. “If you get inside her apartment, you’ll find what’s left of a coffee mug on the floor and coffee spilled everywhere, compliments of Diamond Tommy Houston.”