Shit. Please tell me that wasn’t why he agreed to the drink.
“She left,” I said, then added, “With a guy.” And for good measure: “I don’t think she’s coming back.”
His chin jerked up, eyes filling with an alarm that doused my last fizzle of hope.
“Sorry,” I said.
“No, I ... Was it someone she knew?”
“Just met.”
“What did he look like?”
What, was he trying to scope out the competition? I was tempted to turn and walk away, but couldn’t resist dashing his hopes. Cruel, but he’d just accepted a drink invitation with me to meet my friend. He deserved cruel. I described Adrian in loving detail.
As I did, he fought to hide his reaction, but it seeped through - concern, sharpening to fear. I took some perverse pleasure in the concern, but when I saw that spark of fear, something in my gut said this wasn’t right. Disappointment, I could understand, but not fear.
“Where’d they go?”
“Out back, I think. He wanted a cigarette. What—?”
“How long ago?”
“Maybe a half-hour.” I took out my cell. “She hasn’t texted to say she’s going anywhere, so she must still be out—”
He was already on the move, heading towards the back door, hand pulling his own cell from his pocket. When I took a step towards him, he wheeled to face me, snapping out a brusque, “Stay here.”
“But—”
“I mean it. Stay here. Get a drink. I’ll be right back. I’m ...” He hesitated. “I’m just going to check on her.”
As he hurried off, I strained to hear what he was saying into his cell over the noise of the crowd.
“He’s here,” he said. “And he took a girl already.”
Oh, shit.
There was no performance-art ad campaign. Carter was FBI. He was investigating crimes connected to Vamp Tramp. He’d played along with my misconception to keep a low profile while he stalked a killer. A killer who’d just taken my best friend into a dark alley.
I tried to tell myself I was leaping to conclusions. Maybe this was all part of the performance.
Right, a performance for one. A performance that barrelled through some serious ethical boundaries.
Maybe Carter really was just smitten with Tiffany and wanted to cut in before she got busy with another guy.
So, he’s willing to make a fool of himself over a girl he’s only glimpsed from afar? In a romance novel, maybe. But life, sadly, did not follow the rules of fictional romance.
I called Tiffany. Her phone rang twice, then came on with a message that implied she was out of range, which wasn’t possible. I tried again. Same thing. As I was leaving a frantic message, I noticed my shy admirer from earlier, checking me out again. This time, when I caught his eye, he didn’t look away.
Great timing, buddy.
I hung up and looked around. Admirer-guy had apparently consumed his share of liquid courage and was now lifting a glass and pointing at me, asking if he could buy me a round. Maybe the sane thing to do would be to accept - relax, have a drink, let the cops handle the situation. But if anything happened to Tiffany, I’d never forgive myself.
When my admirer started heading towards me, I held up a finger and pointed towards the hall leading to the ladies’ room, telling him I’d be right back. Then I took off down that hall to the exit door at the other end.
I eased open the rear exit door and listened. That’s become instinctive for me — listening where other people would look. The alley was dark and silent. Anyone else going out for a smoke must have heeded the fire escape only sign and stepped out front.
I eased out. With no sounds to go by, I took a moment to let my eyes adjust. A scattering of stumpy white tubes, like garden grubs, littered the ground. Cigarette butts. I knelt and touched the ends. All cold.