“I’m on medical leave.”
She offers a snort. “Oh, is that what they told you?”
Bailey ignores her. He doesn’t think he’s fired. But even if he is, it doesn’t matter. It’s nice to have all the toys and, yes, the bank of millennial techies, but he’ll always find his way. And it would be nice to work without a tether. “And then when you set the date, let me know.”
He can hear her tapping on her keyboard, voices in the background, a ringing phone.
“I’ll go,” she says. “I’ll be the bait.”
“No way. No one has to show. I’m going to follow him when he leaves.”
“But what if he gets suspicious? What if he suspects a setup and gets spooked. And you lose him for good.”
She has a point. “We’ll talk about it if you get a match.”
There’s silence on the line. Then, “Hey, Bailey.”
He likes Sabrina. They’ve had some good times. He doesn’t think he uses her. He doesn’t want to be the kind of man who uses women. Their thing—it was just what it was, right? Light, fun, a friendship of sorts. “Yeah.”
“Be careful. I feel like you’re out on a limb.”
He feels like that, too. Way out. It’s Wren. He’s reaching for her, dangling over the edge of what’s smart and she’s slipping further and further away.
“I’m okay,” he says, not sure if it’s true. “Hey, Sabrina, you don’t really feel used do you?”
She laughs and it’s throaty and full, making him smile, too. “As if. If anything, I’m the one using you for sex.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“I bet you are.” Her laughter rings on the line as she ends the call.
It’s not even an hour before she texts him: I have a match. I’m meeting him tomorrow at a dive in the East Village, WCOU Radio Bar. He chose it.
Don’t go there, he texts her back. I’ll take care of it.
But she doesn’t answer. And he knows he can’t stop her from doing what she wants. In fact, he can’t stop anyone from doing what they want. Hard as he tries. Not his brother. Not Wren. Obviously not even his millennial “friend.” Maybe there’s a life lesson in it. Maybe one day he’ll learn it.
forty-eight
The night is cold and a light snow falls on First Avenue. There used to be a grit, a smell to the East Village. But these days, it’s all tony boutiques and fancy food shops, vaping hipsters, and stylish bars, restaurants. Bailey liked New York City better before its Disney-fication, when it was still messy and dangerous, full of style, outrage, art, underground clubs. When you might easily get mugged on the Bowery, or offered drugs on Tenth Street, or propositioned in the Meatpacking District. Now things were homogenized, gentrified. Safer, prettier, Instagrammable. Better, some would no doubt say. But not real, somehow. Somehow packaged and sold. The idea of New York City, the dream of it.
“Is that her?”
Jax sits beside him in his SUV; he had not invited her, did not want the distraction and the responsibility of a civilian in his car. He’d, in fact, point-blank asked her not to come. But she was not the kind of woman who took no for an answer. He’d read her blog. Take what you want from this life. Don’t ask permission. Don’t make apologies for being yourself.
The woman walked the walk, he’d give her that.
“Yeah, that’s her,” he answers.
“What’s she wearing?” asks Jax. “Is that like a leather catsuit?”
“Looks like it,” he concedes. What about “be subtle” did Sabrina not understand?
High heels, big bag, some kind of dramatic red wrap. She hustles up the street, looking around, lips painted so red he can see them from where he sits half a block away.
All wrong.
Not the type of woman the ghost liked, too flashy, too confident. Not that it mattered.
Maybe it was better if he lost interest fast and got on his way. If he showed up at all. So often, too often, things just didn’t work. That was a dirty secret of detective work—lots of sitting around, nothing happening, reports back to the office that took hours and said nothing. At least he didn’t have to fill out any reports at the moment.
Though Nora had called him three times today; he declined her calls and hadn’t listened to the voice mail messages.
Bailey watches the light snow fall; finally his phone pings.
Sabrina: I’m here.
He clicks on the surveillance app that turns her phone into a camera and listening device. It’s an app for parents to track their children, spy on their activities, watch all their texts and phone calls. Total high-tech spyware, once the thing of science fiction, now commonplace and available for $19.99 a month.