Tahoe Flight (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 21) by Todd Borg

Author:Todd Borg [Borg, Todd]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thriller Press
Published: 2023-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-SEVEN

I scanned the rooftop bar for anyone who looked like a cop.

It’s a look that is hard to describe but easy for other law enforcement officers to recognize, even if no one is wearing a uniform. Cops in plain clothes still telegraph that they are part of a critical group. They don’t act like they’re particularly important individually. But they know they’re critical. Their group is a kind of societal glue that holds things together and maintains function.

I saw him turn and glance at us. Or, more correctly, glance at Spot.

The man sat alone at a table, his back to one of the two main walls. He faced the crowd, the short wall at the edge of the roof, and the skyline beyond. He was a stocky guy with short brown hair under a baseball cap with Willie Mays’ name and a tiny San Francisco Giants logo and the number 24. He had a stiff bristle mustache that protruded enough to make his chin look weak, a look that was accentuated by enough extra weight that his neck wasn’t slim. But the most noticeable thing about him was his eyes. They barely showed under the brim of his cap. They reminded me of a raptor’s eyes, piercing the air like those of a hawk on a power pole, scanning a field for prey and problems. It was a kind of alertness that indicated he took everything in. The DEA lady might have described him as slow, but I could tell that James Rousseau was aware of everything and everyone.

I walked over. The other patrons stared at Spot, pointing and exclaiming.

In keeping with the cop personality type, James Rousseau didn’t react.

“Hi, James, I’m Owen. This is Spot.” I held Spot back.

Rousseau nodded, stood up halfway, shook my hand, sat back down.

He had a light-colored beer in front of him, half-drunk.

I sat, had Spot sit next to me. Rousseau looked at Spot but showed no reaction. Cops know how to be cool, no matter what. If Spot balanced a basketball on his nose like a circus sea lion, Rousseau probably still wouldn’t react.

A woman with big hair walked up to Spot and started the standard, gushing, hug-and-pet routine. Then she pulled out her phone.

“Let’s maybe do the selfie thing later, okay?” I said.

She frowned at me and then walked away. I was such a buzzkill.

A waiter came over, a questioning look on her face. She stood back from Spot.

“A Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in the bottle, please,”

The waiter nodded and left.

“I’ve tried that Sierra beer,” Rousseau said. “Too much flavor. I like to quench my thirst with a lager. Those ales, you practically have to chew them. But a Bud… You can just drink it.”

“Yeah. Your ATF gig today go okay?”

He nodded. “It was actually all about what we spoke of on the phone. Recognizing contraband transportation modalities. Their words not mine. If you ask me, a person should just say what they mean. Dressing it up with fancy words just makes it look like you don’t have much substance.

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