Risky Behavior by L.A. Witt & Cari Z

Author:L.A. Witt & Cari Z. [Witt, L.A. & Z., Cari]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense, Adult
ISBN: 9781626495647
Goodreads: 33411778
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Published: 2017-02-16T23:00:00+00:00

IA’s timing was impeccable. On my way down to the car to avoid that asshole Thibedeau, I jumped on the opportunity to make contact with yet another one of my informants who’d emerged from the woodwork. Or rather, who’d finally returned my fucking call after a few thinly veiled threats about warrants and shakedowns. By the time I started the engine, I had a meeting set up.

Halfway there, my cell phone came to life. I glanced at the caller ID, and guilt made my heart thump harder—Darren.

In the past, if a partner-slash-babysitter tried to make contact while I was taking care of something like this, I’d have ignored the text and not thought twice about it. It should have been easy to do the same with Darren. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. He wasn’t like the other people Captain Hamilton had assigned to keep an eye on me. I wanted to believe the only difference between Darren and the others was that he was the only one I’d made out with, but I couldn’t quite convince myself.

It didn’t matter, though. Not right now, anyway. Whatever was going on between us could be addressed later. Whatever had gone on in that conference room after I’d left, he could fill me in later, but this had to happen now, and it was not a plus-one occasion. I had to meet the informant alone or not at all.

Forty-five minutes after I’d slipped out of the precinct under Thibedeau’s radar, after doubling back and driving in circles to be absolutely sure I hadn’t been followed, I pulled into the parking lot of a rundown bowling alley. The enormous bowling pin and neon FAMILY BOWL sign had been there since roughly 1957, and probably hadn’t been cleaned or maintained more than once during that time. The dilapidated building seemed to be held together by graffiti and prayers. Foot-tall weeds shot up between cracks in pavement that hadn’t been painted since the Reagan administration. It was less than two miles from the gleaming financial center of the city, but resembled something out of a postapocalyptic wasteland.

And parked near the side exit was a dull gold-brown Impala with mismatched rims. He was here.

I gave the lot a sweeping glance to be doubly sure I hadn’t been followed. Then I went inside.

At the counter, a twentysomething ex-junkie from the halfway house down the road met my gaze. He nodded toward the lounge at the opposite end of the sparsely crowded building. I returned the nod. As I started toward the lounge, the eighties throwback music blasting from crackling speakers got louder. Almost painfully loud. Loud enough to fuck with any bugs, wires, or eavesdroppers.

The lounge was nearly empty. A couple of older guys drinking beer at the bar. A bored bartender who, like the building, had seen better days. A gray-haired woman playing pull-tabs while she vaped.

And in the corner, partially obscured by the back of an oversized booth, was the man I’d come to see.

Without a word, I slid into the booth.

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