“Photo ID?”
“In a wallet.”
“On your person?”
“Yes.”
“Would you show them to me, please?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Well…” He folded his arms on the table and leaned in, lowering his voice. “First off, you asked me—no, instructed me—not to show up here looking like a cop. Wearing a badge sort of gives that away. And anyhow, I never wear my badge to be seen.
“Secondly, the pack of hyenas shooting stick? I know that the DEA is on their tail. Now, if they saw me flashing you a badge and ID, they’d peg me as some brand of law officer, and that would likely result in an outbreak of trouble. I know damn well they’re armed; I just don’t know what kind of firepower they’re carrying, and finding out could lead to bloodshed.
“Thirdly, the bartender has given up his MotorTrend to polish a shot glass. In a joint like this, that level of cleanliness is uncommon if not downright nonexistent. He’s pretending not to watch us, but he hasn’t missed a thing. I don’t know whose side he would be on if a gunfight erupted. If one did—and I can almost guarantee it—you could get hurt, and I would hate that.”
“Your conscience would never recover?”
“No, my career. For a while now, my superior has been looking for an excuse to fire me. If you, an innocent bystander, got injured or killed during a shootout initiated by me, it would be more excuse than he needed to give me the boot.
“All that to say that I’m going to keep my ID wallet in my pocket, my weapon under my shirttail, play it cool, and after we conclude this—whatever this is—I’ll be sure to get the license number of that redneck pickup parked out front, which I’m almost certain belongs to those fentanyl pushers and not to you, then notify the DEA where they’re hanging out.
“So, for everyone’s safety and well-being, let’s just go on pretending that this meeting is random, that you’re a neglected housewife who’s slumming in Auclair, Loooziana. You came in here trolling for an afternoon rodeo. I happened in, you looked me over, and figured I’d do.”
By the time he’d finished, she was seething, but she tried to appear as unfazed as possible. “Your back is to the bartender. How do you know what he’s doing?”
“He’s reflected in the blacked-out window behind your right shoulder. No, don’t turn to look. Trust me.” He picked up his glass and took a long drink, then barely smothered a burp.
She tamped down mounting irritation, which would get her nowhere with him. But she couldn’t resist saying, “I came here with an open mind, willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you actually are an arrogant prick, aren’t you?”
“Hey,” he said, looking affronted, “if you’re angling for a rodeo—”
“I most certainly am not.”
“Well, who invited who? For reasons still unknown, by the way.” His eyes skittered over her. “I do have the right woman, don’t I? If your name isn’t Beth Collins, then—”
“It is.”
“Whew. I was about to get embarrassed.” With no attempt to suppress a grin, he slouched against the back of the booth.
To hell with irritation getting her nowhere. She let it show. “You’re enjoying yourself?”
“A little, yeah.”
“I assure you that this isn’t fun and games.”
“No?” He shrugged. “Okay. When are we going to get around to why you wanted to talk to me? I’ll admit to being curious. Especially now that I’ve seen you.”
She didn’t dare rise to that bait. “You came here out of curiosity alone, then?”
“Honestly? No. I figured I owed you the courtesy of showing up because you pronounced my name right. Not Bow-ie like the rock star. Boo-ie like the knife.”
“Well, Mr. Bowie like the knife, in all seriousness, thank you for agreeing to see me without an explanation and on short notice. Let’s start over, shall we?” She paused. He gestured for her to continue. “The matter is important, and I’m on a deadline.”
He lost the smirk and studied her for a moment. The intensity with which she’d spoken seemed to have penetrated and captured his interest. At least he no longer looked like it was putting a strain on him not to laugh at her.
“All right, Ms. Collins, I’m here. I came at your request like I told you I would. What’s this about?”
She forced her shoulders to relax, mostly because the bartender, who was in her line of sight, was observing them as he polished a shot glass. She forced herself to smile at the disheveled man sitting across from her, then coyly lowered her eyes, as though flirting. Under her breath, she said, “Yesterday, did you tell anyone in the police department that you’d spoken to me?”
“No.”
“Or that we were meeting today?”
“No.”
“When you left the police station to come here—”
“It’s my day off. I came straight from home.” After a beat, “Straight from bed.”
She knew he’d added that to see how she would react, so she didn’t react at all. “Did you tell anyone you were meeting with me? Your wife?”