“Why?”
“I think what he really wanted was to get me to show him some bank records I subpoenaed from Jed Benson’s accounts.”
“What’s in the records? Anything worth getting excited about?”
“Yeah, like millions of dollars of structuring.”
“You’re shittin’ me!”
“Nope!”
He whistled. “Wow. Millions, you said? It’s gotta be drug money, right?”
“That’s what Bernadette said, and I agree. But there’s more.”
He was listening so attentively. She opened her mouth to tell him about the fingerprint report but then stopped herself. Something in the careful way he watched her suddenly struck her as odd. God, she was paranoid tonight! But, unlike with Rommie, where Dan was concerned, she had actual reason to be. She was losing sight of what Delvis Diaz had said to her earlier that evening-that the people she’d brought to the interview were dirty. He didn’t mention Dan by name, but still, shouldn’t she try harder to keep her guard up, at least until she could get the full story from Delvis? Not that she’d necessarily believe him even if he did implicate Dan directly. Delvis might have reason to lie, and Dan struck her as honest as the day was long.
“What is it?” Dan asked. “You said there’s more?”
“Um, lost my train of thought.” Not that she seriously doubted him. But still. “So do you think that’s weird?”
“That he wanted to see the records? No, not really. Sounds like they’re pretty devastating. Besides, Ramirez makes a career out of sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong. You know I think the guy’s an idiot. Just look at the fact that he’s stepping out on your boss. He’s biting the hand that feeds him.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“His influence with her is half of why they keep him around. The guy is such a royal fuck-up he’s come close to getting booted more times than I can count.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
“He’s been beating this minority thing to death for years, or he would’ve been out on his ass long ago.”
“Hey, watch what you say there, pal!” she said. “Soy puertorriqueña también, remember?”
“No offense meant to you, sweetheart. You’re, like, the smartest person I ever met. Which is why people like him piss me off, because they give people like you a bad name.” He looked at her and laughed. “You should see your face right now. You’re going, ‘Who the fuck is this knuckle-dragger I’m hanging out with?’ Look, I’ll never be politically correct, and you can’t take me into polite society. But I promise you, my heart is in the right place.”
She laughed, too. It was hard to be mad at him. “You do have kind of a redneck quality, Agent, but I admit, on you it’s charming.”
“It’s the Irish beat cop in me.”
“So, hey, speaking of cops, if you’re here, who’s at the hospital with Amanda?”
“Randall finally showed up. I left him there and came looking for you, see what was taking you so long.”
“Where the hell was he all afternoon?” Melanie asked.
“I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say. Dealing with personal shit, I guess.”
“Oh. Right. So should we go back there?” She looked at her watch, missing Maya, thinking of Elsie at home counting the minutes. “It’s getting pretty late.”
“No need. Randall said he’d beep me if anything interesting happened. So, listen,” he said, turning toward her and stopping momentarily, “you wanna maybe go get a drink or something?”
“A drink? We don’t have time for that.”
“You need to fill me in on those bank records, right? Besides, I need to grab a bite to eat.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Come on, just for a little while. You got a better offer?” he cajoled.
Despite her warning to herself only a moment earlier, she felt powerfully drawn to him. His blue eyes were glued to her face with such intensity that they blazed. And his voice-rough and sweet at the same time-seemed to caress her. But she’d say no, she’d make herself, she had to. She couldn’t spend time with him like that, alone in a bar. Bad, bad idea. On a lot of levels.
“I can’t. If we’re not going back to the hospital, then I need to get home.”
“So pick a place on the way, and then I’ll drop you. Thirty minutes, tops, I promise. Then I’ll take you right home. My treat. Please. Say yes.”
He was hanging on her answer. How long had it been since somebody wanted so badly to spend time with her? Had anybody ever? Had her husband? She reminded herself of all the reasons to say no. There were a lot of them.
“Okay,” she said breathlessly. Ay, de Dios, she was making a big mistake. “Just a quick one.”
His face lit up. “Whatever you say. I’m parked right over here.”
DAN HEADED FOR A PUB HE KNEW ON SECOND Avenue. The whole way there in the car, Melanie felt nervous and guilty that she was even doing this. But now that she’d agreed to it, she couldn’t very well make him take her right home. Besides, it would disappoint him so. Just one quick drink, she told herself. That wasn’t a crime.
As they looked for parking, she marveled that she’d never been on this block before, a mere five minutes from her apartment. New York was funny that way. A few blocks in either direction and you might as well be on a different continent. On either side of the street, low-rise tenements with lacy ironwork fire escapes, standing since the turn of the last century, alternated with dowdy white-brick high-rises built thirty or forty years ago, after the demolition of the elevated train. The avenue was lined with bars on both sides. Bankers and analysts in their twenties, the men dapper and suited, the women perfectly made up, in heels and skirts, spilled out of the tonier places. In the midst of the frenetic singles scene, a number of Irish pubs hung on stubbornly, one indistinguishable from the next. They stood ramshackle and deserted next to their flourishing neighbors, shamrocks on their tattered awnings, neon Guinness signs in their grimy plate-glass windows. Dan parked in front of one of these.
The place was empty except for a couple of weather-beaten longshoreman types shooting darts in the back. They glanced up as Dan and Melanie entered, then turned indifferently back to their game. A smell of disinfectant from the bathrooms mingled with the yeasty smell of stale beer. Melanie sat down on a stool at a high wooden table. Dan headed for the bar without asking her what she wanted. She watched him walk away. He moved like an athlete, that combination of power and grace. An old jukebox stood tucked in an alcove, and he stopped there on his way, depositing a quarter he took from his pocket. Sinatra came on-“I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” She listened to the lyrics as Dan walked back toward her with two pints of foamy, dark brown Guinness and two meat pies.
“Hey, let me give you some money,” she said, reaching into her bag.
“No way. I said it was my treat. Besides, the man always pays.”
“But I know you’re short till Friday.”
“Not necessary,” he said, blushing. “I know the bartender. That’s why I picked this place.”
She saw he was embarrassed and kicked herself for bringing it up. As if she’d forgotten what it felt like to be strapped for cash.
“Okay then, thanks,” she said, lifting the beer mug. “Hey, what is this? There’s a shamrock imprinted in the foam.”
“It’s Guinness, missy, real authentic. That’s how they serve up a pint in the old country.”
She tasted it. “It’s so thick. I won’t need any dinner if I drink this.”
“I can’t believe I’m out with a girl who never had a Guinness before. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. You’re the champagne-and-caviar type if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Right. Every day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” She laughed at the thought. The beer was going to her head, coming as it did on an empty stomach and after the wine she’d drunk at the dinner. She’d better watch herself. She was supposed to be keeping her guard up with him, remember? She forced herself to focus on the case.