Fat Cat by Rachel Vincent

Author:Rachel Vincent [Vincent, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rachel Vincent

FIFTEEN

There were three vehicles in the lot when I parked behind the Fat Cat Bar and Grille. One of them was Bishop’s 4Runner, but the fact that it was lined up neatly between the other two told me he’d gone home after his shower, and that he’d been there, with Austin, when Vance called them both in.

“What the hell, Charley!” Davey demanded when I shoved my way through the swinging doors from the kitchen into the front of the bar. “It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

I arched both brows at her as I grabbed the nearest coffee pot and ran water into it at the bar sink. “I thought you wanted to be involved.”

“I also want to sleep,” she snapped. “Why am I here?”

“Because I need all hands on deck, and I couldn’t leave you alone.”

“In my home? Where I live? Alone?” she demanded.

“Extraordinary circumstances,” I mumbled as I poured the pot of water into the reservoir on the coffee pot.

“That’s for decaf.” Davey grabbed the orange-rimmed pitcher from me and exchanged it for the regular one. “Move out of the way.”

As she took over, I lifted the bar flap, and—

“Charley,” Davey called, and I turned back to see her staring at a conspicuous gap on the top shelf. “We’re missing a bottle of Johnny Walker. Gold Label.”

“It’s not missing,” I said with a glance into the dining area, where Tucker, Vance, Austin, and Bishop were gathered around a table in the center of the space—the only one that didn’t still have chairs stacked on top of it. “I applied it to Bishop’s tab.”

Davey shrugged. “If nothing else, the man’s good for business.”

On my way into the dining room, I shrugged the nylon pack from my right shoulder and pulled apart the drawstrings. “For those who haven’t heard, it turns out that Silas Morelock had a son named Denny. Not sure what his surname is yet, but I’ve found a picture of the two of them together.”

I pulled the photo from my pack and slammed it down on the table. “Anyone recognize that boy?”

As the coffee pot hissed and dripped from behind the bar, all four men leaned in to look at the old picture.

“I mean, he looks really young there, but isn’t that your fry cook?” Bishop asked.

“Technically, he’s a short order cook. But yes,” I said. “That’s Billy.”

“Wait, what?” Davey’s steps tripped rapidly toward us. She shoved her way into the huddle, where she snatched the picture and held it up to the light. “Billy Bullen? Billy the Kid? No way. How can you be sure?” She squinted at the faded photo. “Are you sure?”

Heads all around us nodded. Our eyes were sharper than hers.

“Good god,” Tucker swore. “How can Eamon possibly justify this?”

“Eamon?” Davey turned on me. “You spoke to Eamon? Do you tell me nothing anymore?”

It took all of my self-discipline not to glance at Bishop.

“Who’s Eamon?” Bishop plucked the photo from my sister’s hand before she could accidentally wad it up.

“The previous Marshal,” I said, just as Davey blurted, “Charley’s ex.

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