No one knew who leaked it, not even Lee, who had ways of finding out everything.
I’d also used my growing network of contacts to find out who the source was, but no one was talking.
It was weird. It wasn’t like it was a state secret. But all lips involved were sealed, as in with super glue.
So I worked, spent time on finding out who was talking about the Rock Chicks and did my other business. Not to mention, I often hooked up with Ren so I woke up in his bed, or alternately he woke up in mine, with more than a hint of frequency (in other words, nearly every morning).
Therefore, I didn’t have time to spend all of it following this woman. That meant it was about putting out feelers. With limited time, I needed to pinpoint my activities. And information sometimes came in slowly, especially about a girl who was not on the underworld grid of Denver. She worked in admitting at St. Joe’s, went to church on Sundays, had a Shih Tzu dog she doted on, a pastime of gardening (seriously, her backyard was the bomb—I’d jumped the fence and looked) and loved her fiancé.
Because I didn’t have the time, and this case was so weird, I’d called in reinforcements.
With the promise of a six-pack of Red Bull, a bottle of vodka and an entire afternoon of me at his place playing some game on his PS3 (this, a sacrifice for me; I rocked Guitar Hero, the rest of it I could take it or leave it—usually leave it), I’d talked my computer genius friend Brody into digging into this chick. I wanted to see if there was some electronic trail the fiancé couldn’t find rifling through her desk.
I also needed to learn how to pick a lock. I wanted inside her place to see for myself. I’d bought a couple of locks at the hardware store to examine them and try to figure them out, but I hadn’t had time to do that.
Alternately, I hoped the chick showed tonight and gave me some insight into why a good Catholic girl who loved her dog, geraniums and worked at a children’s hospital would be coming to this bar and giving lame excuses to her supposedly beloved fiancé about why she wouldn’t pick a date for the blessed event.
This was on my mind when I felt movement beside me.
I turned my head and saw Darius sliding into my booth.
I didn’t know whether to take this as a good or bad thing. Darius and I were tight so if he saw me out and about, he wouldn’t hesitate to approach. He also worked for Lee, so he could be anywhere at any time doing anything.
Then again, if he saw me out and about, he’d never see me someplace like this unless a Rock Chick was on the line. But we were currently in Rock Chick/Hot Bunch Downtime.
I led with, “Hey,” to get the lay of the land.
He shook his head and grinned.
Darius was black, had twists in his hair, soulful eyes, and the lean he had been when he was a drug dealer, which had bordered on hungry-looking and mean, had filled out now that he left that life behind. He looked healthier; not content but not angry, and his lean was no longer mean. It was kickass edgy.
Then again, he’d always been hot. Even when he was a drug dealer.
“Since it’s you, I’ve decided to find this amusing rather than drag your ass outta here and tell you to get your head out of it,” he declared.
I blinked.
Then I asked, “What?”
“Woman, you are not flying under radar.”
I looked around the bar to see if eyes were on me, particularly if the woman I was hoping to see there was there and had, for some bizarre reason (since she couldn’t know I was looking for her), made me.
“Not the bitch you’re after,” Darius said, and I looked back at him. “Lee.”
Oh. That.
I didn’t care about that.
“I’m not doing anything illegal,” I pointed out.
He ignored me and said, “And Hank.”
“So?”
He again ignored me and continued, “And Eddie. And your dad. And Indy’s dad—”
I cut him off. “I get your point, Darius. I just don’t know why you’re making it.”