She didn’t look at me. Which was horridly rude. She wore a charcoal gray dress with black patent leather boots, an outfit that could have doubled as a Russian school uniform, and she had shoulder-length black hair. Her only accessory was the knife, which didn’t really match. Apparently accessorizing was not her thing.
I walked over to the tail parked across the street and knocked on the window. The guy in it jumped with a start. “I’m going to work now!” I yelled through the glass as he squinted at me. “Pay attention.”
He rubbed his eyes and waved. I recognized him as one of Garrett Swopes’s men. Garrett Swopes, I thought with a snort. What a freaking traitor. My uncle Bob says, Follow Charley, and he does it. Like, just does it. Like our friendship means nothing to him. Of course, it doesn’t, but still. Punk ass.
“Are you Charley Davidson?”
I turned to see a woman in a worn brown coat and penny loafers. Practical but hardly appealing. “Depends on who’s asking.”
She walked up to me, scanning the area as she went. She had long black hair that could’ve used a good brushing and huge sunglasses covering half her face. I recognized her from the Buick in the street yesterday morning. The same hair. The same sunglasses. The same sadness percolating beneath the surface. But her aura was warm, its light like the soft glow of a candle, as though afraid to shine too brightly.
“Ms. Davidson.” She held out her hand. “My name is Monica Dean. I’m Teresa Yost’s sister.”
“Ms. Dean.” I took her hand. All the emotions of a woman with a missing sister were present and accounted for. She was scared and grief-stricken and sick with worry. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I’m sorry.” She pushed her sunglasses up nervously. “My brother said not to talk to you.”
“Yeah, I don’t think he appreciated my visit yesterday. Can you come in?” I gestured toward the back of Dad’s bar. The wind bit through my jacket, nipping at me like an elderly Chihuahua.
“Of course,” she said, pulling her coat tighter. “And my brother doesn’t know what to think of your visit. He was quite taken with you.”
“Really?” I started for the bar. “I got the feeling he wanted to put me in a choke hold and insist I say uncle repeatedly.” That’s it! A professional wrestler! “I’m so sorry about your sister,” I added, steering my thoughts back around. But seriously, I would rock as a wrestler. I’d have to get a tan, though. And maybe veiny muscles.
“Thank you.”
Health insurance would be good, too.
I turned on lights as we entered the back of Dad’s establishment, though the illuminated kitchen told me Sammy was already in prepping for the dinner crowd. My dad’s bar was a cross between an Irish pub and a Victorian brothel. The main room had a cathedral ceiling with dark woods and hundred-year-old ironwork that crested the walls like ancient crown molding. It spiraled around and lured the eye to the west wall, where a glorious wrought-iron elevator loomed tall and proud. The kind you see only in movies and very old hotels. The kind with all its mechanisms and pulleys open for its audience to enjoy. The kind that took from here to eternity to get its occupants to the second floor. Framed pictures, medals, and banners from various law enforcement events covered every available surface with the original mahogany bar to the right of us.
“Want some coffee?” I asked, gesturing for her to sit at one of the corner booths. Monica looked half-starved, her hands shaking with grief and fatigue. I figured if we sat down here, we could get Sammy to whip us up something. “I was just about to have breakfast if you’d like to join me.”
The back door crashed open, and a very unhappy man named Luther Dean stormed inside. “You can’t be serious,” he said, glaring at his sister.
She took a seat and blew out a long breath, expelling such a deep, abysmal sadness when she did so that I felt consumed by it. I filled my lungs to ease the weight and ducked behind the bar for coffee.
“I’ve done my research,” she said to her brother. “She’s very good at her job.”
He glanced over a massive shoulder toward me. “She doesn’t look very good at it. She has a black eye.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said, feigning offense. He was funny.
“Luther, sit down.” Monica took off her sunglasses and offered him a glower of annoyance when he didn’t comply. “I told you, she can help us. So, either behave yourself or leave. It’s your decision.”
He jerked a chair out from a nearby table and sat down. “She called me an asshole.”
“You are an asshole.”
I grinned and brought over three coffee cups, realizing how much fun this conversation was going to be. Thirty minutes later, we were polishing off an amazing rendition of huevos rancheros with green chile enchiladas on the side. God I loved Sammy. I’d considered marrying him, but his wife got upset when I asked for his hand.
“What makes you so trustworthy?” Luther asked, his icy-blue glare particularly brutal. He took skeptic to a whole new level. “I mean, you’re working for Nathan. Why should we believe anything you have to say?”
“Actually, I’m not,” I said, hoping they’d believe anything I had so say, “and why don’t you trust your sister’s husband?” We had yet to actually talk about the case. I decided to lull them into a false sense of security, which would have gone over better had I not stolen the last bite off Luther’s plate. He was very touchy about his food.
Still, I could tell he was coming around. They exchanged glances.
With a sigh of resignation, Monica admitted, “No reason whatsoever.” She shrugged. “He’s perfect. The perfect husband. The perfect brother-in-law. He’s just…”
“Too perfect?” I offered.
“Exactly,” Luther said. “And there were things, instances, that just didn’t quite make sense.”
“Like?”
He glanced at his sister, getting her approval before explaining. “Teresa invited us out to eat one night a couple of months ago when Nathan was out of town, just the three of us.”
“She seemed concerned about something,” Monica said, and I could’ve sworn I felt a pang of guilt assault her. “She told us she took out a huge life insurance policy on both her and Nathan, and that if anything were to happen to her, anything at all, we would get it all.”
“So she took it out?” I asked. “Not Nathan?”
I felt it again. A quiver, a tremble of guilt emanating from Monica as she replied, “Exactly. I’m not even sure Nathan knows about it.”
“She wanted us to know where the policy was,” Luther added. “She made sure of it.”
Monica produced a key. “She even put us down as her beneficiaries on her bank account so we would have access to her safety deposit box where she kept it.”
“That does sound odd,” I said, fighting to ignore the bells going off in my head. Was she afraid of her husband? Did she think her life was in danger? “How big was the policy?”
“Two million dollars,” Luther said. “Each.”
“Holy mother of crap.” I was ever the wordsmith. “Is that even possible?”
“Apparently,” Monica said.
Luther crossed his arms over his chest. “The policy was his idea. It had to be. Why would Teresa take out such a big policy? He had her do it to make himself look good.”
“We don’t know that,” Monica said.
“Please.” He scooted back in his chair, irritated. “Everything that man does is to make himself look good. That’s what he’s all about. Looking good. Presenting the perfect picture for his hordes of fans.”