I looked up at him. He really was a good-looking man. In another moment, in another lifetime, I would’ve loved spending time counting those long dark lashes. At least that question I could answer almost honestly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never held a gun in my life.” This time, when I wrenched the door out of his hands, it slammed shut. Through my window, I could hear him yell something about how I’d be seeing him again, and I held a hand up in a wave. As I sped off, I ticked my fingers down until there was only one left up.

A good cop, I thought as I stared at his shrinking form in my rearview mirror. How useless in this city.

Chapter 28

The twenty-four hours waiting to meet Carrigan were torture. If I could’ve, I’d have spent the night at the tiki bar so I could make sure I didn’t miss him. When the time came, he was early to meet me, but by then, I’d been waiting nearly an hour.

Only a handful of patrons sat at the half-moon tables, where germy little handfuls of stale pretzels and peanuts floated in faux-coconut shells next to Technicolor-disaster cocktails. The bar didn’t have the same luster as the last time I’d been there with Lou. Now, the ugly décor—the browned and splotched wood of the floor and the exposed beams, the lumpy clientele—was just ugly, not charmingly so. Jo will tell me she hates this bar, but I bet she loves it. She’d been wrong, for once. It wasn’t the bar I loved.

For the occasion, I’d dressed up: tight black dress that hugged my ass and hips, stilettos, red lipstick. The shoes pinched my toes and the patent leather was scraped in places, but I liked the inches they added to my stems when I crossed my legs. A moneyed woman, I’d thought, looking in the mirror before I left. I’d taken a picture and sent it to Jackal, who sent me back only a full row of dollar-bill signs.

In the movies, Carrigan would’ve been carrying something ridiculous, like a suitcase weighted down with gold bars. Instead, when he sat down next to me, his expression permanently pickled, he threw a large envelope onto the table in front of me.

“Half cash and a cashier’s check,” he said by way of greeting. I clawed it open and the sight almost took my breath away: bundles of rubber-banded bills nestled alongside a long white check that might as well have been made out to Freedom instead of Cash. “Where are my photos?”