First Lie Wins(79)

That doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s happening here.

The reason I’m in a holding pattern is because someone else is working behind the scenes trying to make a deal with her to return the information on her own. Not that they are playing nice, but because it’s the best way to make sure they get back everything she took.

The only thing protecting Amy right now is that she is still in possession of the blackmail material. And regardless of whether she turns it over willingly or I have to take it from her, the second it’s out of her hands she’ll feel the full wrath of Mr. Smith and the Connolly family.

And just as I was warned after the Tate job, I have no illusions that I am alone here. Amy Holder has become the number-one priority to Mr. Smith, so there will be nothing left to chance.

I move to the bar, choosing a stool three down from hers with a big open space between us, and signal for another glass of wine.

Devon sets it down in front of me and asks, “Would you like to see a menu?”

With a smile, I say, “No, thank you,” and he moves off to help a group on the other side of the bar. Even though I’m not sure if I’ll need him for this job, I’ve gotten to where I don’t want to do a job without him. We’ve become an inseparable team.

“You’re new here,” Amy says.

I take a minute to glance around to see if she’s talking to me. When it’s clear she is, I answer, “Yes, just moved to town.” I turn on my stool to face her, opening myself up to a conversation.

She scans me up and down, then turns back to her martini.

“I know what you’re looking for, but you’re not going to find it here.” She swirls a finger in her drink and then brings her finger to her mouth, sucking the liquid off it. “You won’t find it! Tell your people!”

I can’t help but shrink back from her outburst.

Amy brings her glass to her lips and takes a deep drink, finishing it off, then waves the empty glass in the air. “You’ll never, ever, ever find it!” She’s loud enough that several heads turn her way.

She spins around to face me, gives me a big toothy grin, then turns back to the bar. “Gone,” she shout-whispers.

I identified the guy who was sent to watch me watch her a few days ago. Older guy who stays in the back corner of the room, dressed like he’s just finished a round of golf. I know there’s a high probability he’s sending Mr. Smith real-time updates on what is going down right now, so I have to tread carefully, since I was told not to engage her. I don’t want to be taken off this job.

“I believe you have me mistaken for someone else. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, then turn back to face the bar, taking a sip of the wine in front of me. Mr. Smith will be pissed I’m the reason she’s losing it.

Watching her in my peripheral vision, I see her shoulders deflate almost as if she’s frustrated with me. I watch her for several seconds, then she beams when another cocktail lands in front of her. “Morris! My hero!” she squeals.

The crowd’s interest in her dies down and the volume rises as the conversations around us resume.

I swivel just slightly in her direction so I can watch her a little more easily.

She notices I’ve turned and she follows suit. “The first time you showed up at the club was Monday before last at six seventeen p.m. You wore a light-blue tennis skirt and white sleeveless top. Hair pulled back. You ordered a vodka cranberry. The next night you got here at five forty-five p.m. wearing a floral shift dress. You had two glasses of Chardonnay.” She’s pointing the plastic drink stirrer at me while she rattles off the exact arrival time of each visit I’ve made here, including what I ate, drank, and wore, her volume increasing as she goes. “And every night, your midnight blue Lexus SUV follows me home.” She even recites the license plate number.

I’m glancing around the room, noticing we’ve attracted an audience again. My shadow in the back corner is openly staring at us. The only other time I have been confronted like this was by another drunk woman, Jenny Kingston. Images of her lying on the floor, blood pooling around her head, flood my memories, along with the question my boss asked me after: What would you have done if she hadn’t fallen on her own? It’s a question that has haunted me for eight years.

I have to try to salvage this situation. “I’m new to town and this seemed like the best place to meet people.”

“I get it,” she says. “I know they want it back, but we both know I’m dead if I turn it over.”

I glance around the bar, looking for any cameras or mics so I can determine just how much Mr. Smith will hear about what went down tonight between us. There’s nothing obvious, but I can’t rule it out so I keep up the charade.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but if you need help, I can—”

“You’re not here to help me. No one can help me. But I had no choice. I’d already be dead if I didn’t take it.” She doesn’t give me time to respond but instead says, “Just go away already,” before settling back into her cocktail.

I stay at the bar long enough to finish my wine and close out my tab, then I slide off the stool and walk out of the bar.

Once I’m in my car, I drive on autopilot to the small apartment that was set up for me. There’s no doubt Mr. Smith has already heard about the scene we made in the bar. I don’t think what happened tonight would be enough for him to pull me out, but he’ll be watching closer than ever now.