“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”

There are a couple types of stakeouts when you’re on the hunt for a suspect. But this particular one was what we call a “dynamic” in Mason Falls. Which means that the rules can change as we go.

In a dynamic stakeout, there’s a decision matrix that runs through one senior cop, who’s charged with looking at a series of variables and making live decisions. Like, if we saw what car the little guy showed up in, we might decide to hang back and get his license plate. Have patrol pull him over a mile down the road. Which was why Remy had a patrol car parked just south of the bar, ready to intercept.

If we felt like we could strike up a conversation with the guy, we might try that instead. The most likely person to do that was Remy, who I’d seen hit on guys as part of interviews and interrogations for eighteen months now.

The last option was—with a click of a walkie, which I’d keep hidden in my booth—I could have the black and whites outside in a minute. We could spook the little guy on purpose, flushing him out to a pair of unis, who’d arrest him on the spot.

Remy took a soda water from the bartender and walked over to a table. Placed it there and sat down.

I walked behind the bar and took out four shot glasses. Broke the seal on the apple juice and filled each of four cups, positioning them on a waitress tray and sliding it under the lip of the bar.

“You recovering?” McGulden asked.

“I’m on duty,” I said.

I walked away. Half the bartenders I knew were ex-drunks. In and out of the bottle at some stage while they worked the bar. Maybe this McGulden guy could smell it on me.

We dug in then, and this is what I remembered most about stakeouts from my early days. The waiting. The waiting with nothing friggin’ happening for hours. Sometimes even days.

An hour passed, and the place began to fill up. At eight-thirty, Darren Gattling arrived in casual clothes. He gave Remy a hug. They looked good together, and I wondered whether last night was, in fact, the first time they’d hooked up, like she said.

It’s not uncommon for cops to date other cops, although the ratio of women to men in most departments is pretty one-sided.

Plus, it seems safer. The people you meet at work understand the drill and the toll it takes. So you avoid the badge bunnies who are more interested in telling their friends they’re dating a guy who carries a gun. Or the women that Remy calls “holster sniffers.” Which, if I understand the term correctly, means a woman who flirts a lot, especially with married cops, but has no interest in anything at all.

At half past nine, I heard the rapidly alternating noise of a police siren, and I hoped no speeder was getting pulled over in front of Tandy’s. Not when the little guy was headed here and could easily be spooked.