Page 45 of I Will Ruin You

He hummed an affirmative. “Scoping the place out.”

The newcomer took a seat next to Grant, two over from Marta, who continued to nurse her Coke.

All she wanted was a really good look at her. Then she’d depart, get in her unmarked cruiser, wait for her to leave, and see where she went. If she got into a vehicle, Marta would run the plate.

Jim approached the woman. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Gin and tonic,” she said.

Marta turned slightly on her stool so she could see her better out of the corner of her eye.

When Jim brought her drink, the woman asked, “That girl that was here the other night around?”

“Cherise?”

“Yeah.”

Jim snatched up the bills she’d tossed onto the bar. “Not so far.”

Clearly she hadn’t gotten the memo about what had happened to Cherise, Marta thought.

If she hadn’t come to see anyone else, she probably wasn’t staying long. Marta figured she would cut out now, wait outside. She threw a five and a couple of singles onto the bar and was about to slip off the stool.

“Hey,” said the woman.

Marta turned. “You talking to me?”

“Yeah.” The woman was looking at her feet. “What kind of runners is those?”

Marta glanced down reflexively, like she needed a reminder. “Converse,” she said.

“What they run ya?”

“I don’t know. Sixty, seventy bucks.”

The woman nodded. “They look about my size. Comfortable. Casual. You got an interesting sense of style. Sneakers and silk pants. Like putting on a sweatshirt when you’re wearing diamond earrings.”

“Not a fan of heels,” Marta said.

“If it was me, coming in here alone, looking for some company, I’d have some fuck-me pumps on.”

Marta flashed a smile, said, “You have a nice evening,” and headed for the door.

Once outside, she crossed the street, got into her car, and said aloud, “Shit shit shit.”

Cherise’s likely supplier, striking up a conversation like that? Had Marta been made? She should have changed into a pair of jeans. Had she sent off some kind of cop vibe? Was she getting sloppy? All these years in the department, and suddenly she felt like some kind of amateur.

Well, the night wasn’t over yet. She’d hang in, wait for the woman to come out, see if she got into one of the other cars parked on the street. Check the plate, see where she went.

She waited.

And waited.

After half an hour, she wondered whether she could have missed her. If the woman had, in fact, suspected Marta was a cop, maybe she’d slipped out the back door.

She got out of the car, debating whether to go back into the bar, just take one step in, see if the woman was still there. If she was gone, there was no point sitting out here all night like an idiot.

Behind her, someone said: