“Don’t have one.”
“Oh.” Her surprised reaction to that was involuntary. “You did.”
“Not anymore.” His brows drew together to form a deep cleft between them. “How the hell—”
“I was given some background information on you.”
“By who?”
Whom, she thought. But she didn’t correct him or give him a direct answer. “I also did some research of my own.”
His stare practically pinned her to the back of the booth. Without looking away, he reached for his drink and took a swallow. When he set down his glass, he said, “What are you up to? We’re a mediocre department in a modest city. And that’s a generous description. If you’ve got trouble, why call us?”
“You. I called you.”
“What makes me special?”
She dampened her lips and lowered her voice. “The case of that young woman who vanished in November of 2022.”
He clenched his jaw. His gray eyes turned flinty. He assumed the menacing aspect of a cobra about to strike.
Even though she’d anticipated hostility, his reaction was acute and intimidating and caused her to lose her footing. “Her name—”
“I know her name.”
She glanced at the bartender, who was still polishing that damn glass. When she came back to John Bowie, she spoke sweetly through a phony smile. “Our observer may not be able to hear what you’re saying, but he’ll pick up on your angry tone as well as your body language, which is less than convincing that you’re hoping for a hookup.”
He blinked as though to reboot the law officer in himself. “The playacting is important?”
“Yes. For now.”
Taking her at her word, he relaxed his posture and leaned forward again. “Then I’d better up my game.” He reached across the table, took her hand, and stroked the palm of it with his thumb. “How’s this? Better?”
She curbed the impulse to jerk her hand away from his, resisted the implication of the stroking, and denied the flutter it caused beneath her navel. Instead, she gave him a demure smile and reclaimed her hand with feigned reluctance.
He drained his Coke and shook a pebble-size ice cube into his mouth. He crunched it while watching her with mistrustful intensity. “What does the Crissy Mellin case have to do with you?”
“It became a national news story.”
He snorted with bitterness. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You were deeply involved in the investigation.”
“I already know that.”
“Your name was frequently mentioned in the news coverage.”
“Again, something I know.”
“But you declined to be interviewed.”
“Not for the bloodsuckers’ lack of trying.”
She hesitated and took a breath. “Although you were never on camera, you were referenced and often quoted. A snippet here, a phrase there, and it soon became obvious that you were dissatisfied with your department’s handling of the investigation.” She paused, then asked, “Was your outspokenness the reason your superior has wanted to fire you?”
“That’s one reason.”
“There’s another?”
“My dick is bigger than his, and that galls him something terrible. Not that we’ve ever actually compared them, but, you know.”
She kept her expression droll. “Ah, intentional vulgarity. Used in the hope that I’ll be offended, will snatch up my bespoke handbag, and storm out.”
“Don’t let me keep you, Ms. Collins.”
“Sorry, Mr. Bowie. You’ll have to do better than that.”
Brow still furrowed and stern, he leaned in farther and lowered his voice to a near growl. “I’m tired of this back-and-forth. Why did you invite me to this out-of-the-way, low-rent dive? In the middle of the afternoon. On my day off. Like I don’t have anything better to do than reminisce about something I’d rather eradicate from memory?”
His eyes narrowed and took a leisurely visual tour of her. When their eyes reconnected, he gave her a lazy smile. “Unless you really are hankering for a rodeo. Maybe with a man who has handcuffs, a badge, and a pistol? Is that it? That’s a big turn-on for some women. You’d be surprised by how many.”
“I wouldn’t be in the least surprised.”
“Then if that’s the case,” he drawled, “let’s move it along.”
Her cheeks went hot. She bit back an angry retort, reached for her glass, and took a sip from the straw. She returned the glass to the table with a thump. “I called because Crisis Point, the true crime network show for which I work as a producer, is soon to air an episode covering the Crissy Mellin case.”
His eyes took on that fearsome glint again as he hissed, “Son of a bitch. When the crew was down here filming, it created a big stir. But it’s been a while back. I hoped it had been deep-sixed.”