“Oh yeah,” she said slowly. “I remember him. Jimmy Zee. He and his wife used to hang out at our house, when I was little.”

“Hard to believe the old man was ever a cop,” Ben said. “I’d have guessed he was born a lawyer.”

Unbidden images tugged at Drue’s memory. Of her father, arriving home at the end of his shift, carefully unbuckling his holster, stashing his service weapon in a box kept on the top shelf of the bedroom closet. She remembered Sherri, every Sunday night, with the ironing board set up in the living room, starching and ironing a week’s worth of her father’s white uniform shirts, while smoking and watching the soap operas she’d taped. Some days, if he was in a good mood, Brice would prop Drue up on a phone book in the driver’s seat of his green-and-white cruiser, turn on the blue flashers and siren, and she would laugh and clap her hands, because those were the days she was Daddy’s girl.

She watched as the two men bent their heads together, deep in conversation.

“Where’d you go to school?” Jonah asked.

“On the east coast,” she said, annoyed. She’d already noticed his flashy gold UF college ring.

“I meant, what school?” he persisted.

“Miami,” she said. She hadn’t actually said UNIVERSITY of Miami, right? If he jumped to the wrong conclusion, that wasn’t her fault.

“Miami. Cool. Mark Richt is kicking ass and taking names down there. You a Hurricanes fan?”

“Not at all. I detest football,” she said, trying desperately to shut him down. Why had she lied like that? Why not say Miami Dade College? There was nothing wrong with it. Nothing wrong with her.

She sucked down the last of her margarita and started to stand. “I gotta go. Tomorrow’s a school day, right?”

“You just got here,” Ben said, looking dismayed.

Brice had spotted her. He came around the table, put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not leaving already. The party just got started.”

“Actually, I am,” Drue said. “I’ve gotta get an early start in the morning. Don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the office manager.”

Brice frowned at her lame joke. Before he could say anything, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, took a few steps away from the table, and a moment later was back.

“Speaking of. That was the boss,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve been summoned home.”

He motioned the server over. “You’ve already run my Amex. Keep the tab running for this motley crew.”

Brice clapped his hands to get the group’s attention. “Gotta go, guys, but don’t stop the party on my account.”

“Booty call,” Ben yelled, and the others at the table took up the refrain, banging beer bottles on the tabletop. “Booty call. Booty call. Brice has got a booty call.”