Zak scrunched his blond brow in thought. “Katelyn?”
Patrick’s gaze flew to Elizabeth. “No. It’s some little brunette know-it-all with a penchant for harassing me.”
“Is it April Fools?” Zak pointed at himself. “This is me you’re talking to, not some dupe. You know that, right?”
“I’m serious.” Patrick signaled to Elizabeth with both hands. “She’s right there.”
Zak’s gaze went to where Elizabeth stood, and he scrunched his face. “How much have you been drinking?”
“I haven’t!”
“Liar,” Elizabeth said.
Patrick rubbed the back of his neck. “At least, not since last night.”
“I’m sorry, but this is too strange. Without proof…” Zak ran a hand through his hair.
Patrick turned to Elizabeth. “Can you do what you did with the flowers again?”
She folded her arms and lifted her chin. “Nope. You’re the physic. Show me how it’s done, oh great Nostradamus.”
Zak laughed. “What’s she saying?”
Patrick narrowed his eyes. “She says you’re attractive.”
Elizabeth stepped toward him. “I did not. Why would you say that?”
“She did?” Zak stood a little taller. “Your hallucination has good taste.”
“She’s not a hallucination. Come on, think about it. Would I ever say you were attractive?”
Zak scratched his chin. “No, probably not.”
“I can’t believe you’re lying to get him to believe you,” Elizabeth said.
Patrick lifted his hands, palms up. “I can’t believe you can’t believe it. My day job?”
She pulled her chin back. “How do you live with yourself?”
Patrick lifted a hand. “In solitary. I like being alone. Why don’t you get that?”
Zak tugged on his lapels. “What does she look like?”
“Are you kidding me?” Patrick said at the same time Elizabeth said, “Is he for real?” They stared at each other, and she dropped her gaze. Patrick glanced over at his friend, at his grin and the twinkle in his eye. Zak still didn’t believe anything Patrick was saying; he was just mocking him. Fortunately, he’d set Patrick up perfectly to prove it.
Patrick sized her up and turned to his friend. “She’s a little pert for my taste, actually.”
Elizabeth scoffed. “Oh, jeez.”
“You might like her, though; she kind of reminds me of that gal you dated before you met Valerie.”
“Florence?” Zak placed his finger on the end of his nose and pushed it up. “With the upturned nose?”
“Exactly.” Patrick smiled.
“I don’t have a nose like that.” Elizabeth placed her hands on her hips.
“Yes, that one wasn’t the most attractive girl I ever dated,” Zak said, “but she had a great personality.”
Patrick lifted a hand. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“All right, that’s enough,” Elizabeth said.
Zak laughed. “Good point.”
“Good schnauzer.” Patrick snorted like a pig, and both men busted up. He then sneaked a glance at Elizabeth. Her jaw was clenched, and he thought any moment steam might come from her ears.
“Good thing I didn’t get saddled with that one.”
Patrick pointed to Elizabeth. “Or this one.”
Zak lifted his hands. “Indeed.”
“All right, fine, you asked for it.” Elizabeth took the few steps she needed to reach him and smacked him upside the head.
“Ouch!” Patrick flinched forward.
Zak was chortling too much to notice. She continued her forward motion with her hand up and got Zak in the forehead.
He fell back a couple steps, hand going to his head as his eyes bulged. “What in tarnation was that?”
Patrick signaled to Elizabeth again, lifting his hands up and down. “Elizabeth!”
“She’s real. It’s real.” Zak stumbled back to his stool and sat.
Elizabeth clenched her fists. “It?”
“Yes, to both of you.” He looked at Elizabeth. “Thank you for that, by the way. He never would’ve believed me otherwise.”
She took a step toward him, and he took a quick step back. She half scoffed, half laughed. “Happy to smack you upside the head any time you want.”
Warmth spread through his chest. He grinned at her.
Meanwhile, Zak was staring between Patrick and where he thought Elizabeth stood. “Who is she?”
Patrick faced his friend again. “I don’t know… Elizabeth Shea. She says she’s a cop.”
Pulling his cell from his pocket, Zak flipped it in the air and caught it with his opposite hand. “If she’s real, she should be in the news.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms. “He’s handling this remarkably well, considering.”
Zak scrolled for a few minutes and waved Patrick over. “Is this her?”
Patrick looked at the picture of Elizabeth along with the headline saying she’d been shot and killed a month ago. “That’s her!” He breathed in deep, relief overcoming him. The final proof he needed to cement in his mind she was real, and he wasn’t crazy.
Elizabeth came closer and peered over Zak’s other shoulder.
“She’s pretty,” Zak said. “Her nose is nice.”
“Thank you,” she said, sounding exasperated.
Patrick leaned closer. “I know. She is. What’s the article say?”
Elizabeth cleared her throat.
“Not much.” Zak scrolled down and paused on something, his eyes widening a little as if he were surprised, then moved on. After a moment, he turned his phone to Patrick. “Wow, look at her.”
Patrick leaned in again. “Elizabeth?”
“No, the Assistant DA. She’s over this case. Stephanie Striker. Good-looking woman,” Zak said.
On Zak’s phone was a picture of the woman standing in front of the Capitol Building. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she had a little grin on her face.
“Ms. Striker said, ‘We will find out who was responsible and we’ll build a case until they’re dead to rights. They don’t know it yet, whoever did this, but this was the biggest mistake of their lives.’ Good-looking and fierce—just your type.”
Elizabeth stepped away.
Patrick grimaced a little. Striker was definitely not his type. She had a hardness about her that didn’t sit well with him. Maybe that was a side effect of the job, but that said, Elizabeth worked in the justice field and wasn’t hard at all. “I need your help.”
Zak spread his arms. “You know how crazy this sounds, right?”
“And you know I’m telling the truth.”
“Yes. I do.” Zak rubbed his forehead. “What do you want me to do?”
“Help me get rid of her,” Patrick said.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. She did that a lot too. “I’m right here.”
“What have you tried?” Zak put his phone in his pocket.
“Asking her to leave, telling her to leave, singing ‘One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall’ for two hours—”
“Ooo.” Zak cringed and pulled back. “And that didn’t work?”
“No.” Patrick narrowed his eyes at her. “She sang along.”
Zak laughed and covered his mouth with his hand for a second. “That’s funny.”
It had been, actually. Not that he’d admit it—ever. “I also hid in my bathroom, tried to drown her out with other noises, and walked around in my underwear.”
“And have you tried taking care of her unfinished business?” Zak lifted his hands in a questioning manner.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. “My point exactly.”
Patrick groaned. “I don’t want to help. I want to be left alone.”
“Right.” Zak nodded. “Because being alone has made you such a joy. Listen, my friend, she came to you. It’s obvious you’re supposed to help her, and I doubt she’s going anywhere until you do.�
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Patrick paced the concrete floor in front of Zak. Elizabeth stood silently behind his friend, nodding in agreement.
Zak shrugged. “And who knows? Maybe if you help her, she can put you in contact with Katelyn.”
Patrick turned on his friend. “No. She has nothing to do with this, and I don’t want her to.”
Elizabeth stepped out from behind Zak. “Who’s Katelyn?”
“She’s none of your business, that’s who,” Patrick said.
“She’s Patrick’s late wife. She passed a little more than two years ago,” Zak offered.
Patrick glared at Zak.
“I assumed that’s what she was asking, and by your glare, I’m guessing I was spot-on.”
Patrick made eye contact with Elizabeth.
She blinked. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could—”
He lifted a hand in a stop motion. “No. You go anywhere near her, and I will never help you. Do you understand? Never.” With that, he turned his back on them and marched out.
Chapter Eight
The taxi stopped out in front of a bar called The Giant Head. Elizabeth frowned as Patrick paid the driver and got out. She followed as quickly as she could, but he was enough taller than her and walking fast enough she had to take two strides for every one of his. The name of the club sounded familiar, but it’d be hard to forget had it been mentioned in everyday conversation, so she didn’t give it much thought.
She caught up with him as he was allowed past the velvet rope, past the line, and into the club. “Patrick, do you think you should be drinking?” she yelled over the pounding music. People crowded in, making it nearly impossible to keep someone from going right through her. Each time, nausea would hit and retreat, like waves against the sand. After it happened three times, she fell in step behind him, using him as a shield as they swerved through the mass of undulating bodies.
Patrick ignored her like he had on the cab ride over. She couldn’t blame him. From having grown up with an alcoholic, she could never condone drinking and shutting yourself off from the world as a way to deal with death. Her dad had done that and had eventually ended his own life. But now she understood Patrick more. He had suffered a real tragedy, and the last thing she wanted to do was drudge up those feelings of loss.
He made his way to a door with several locks on it and knocked.
The door swung open, and Patrick went into the dimly lit room. She followed, staying close by his side. Three men sat at a round table with green felt on it, one sitting with his back to the door and smoking a cigar, wisps of smoke hanging in the air like clouds on a foggy day. The other two men each had respectably sized piles of chips. The skinnier of the two men grabbed two black chips and tossed them in the middle of the table.
She got a closer look and dropped her jaw. “Thousand-dollar chips, what the crap?”
Patrick took a seat, and the men nodded to him.
“Yeah, I’m not sure replacing one vice for another is a great idea,” Elizabeth said. “You shouldn’t be here, Patrick. We should go.”
The one smoking the cigar leaned forward into the light, showcasing an ugly thick moustache—her brothers would’ve called it a Flavor Savor. Yuck.
“How good to see you. After last time, I wasn’t sure you’d ever come back.” The man reached to his right-hand ring finger and twisted a gold band there.
Elizabeth furrowed her brow and glanced at Patrick’s ring finger—empty aside from a little tan line where a ring used to be. Her eyes bulged, and she pointed. “Is that your ring?”
He clenched his jaw, the muscles there tightening.
“You bet your wedding ring?”
Opening his wallet, Patrick produced a wad of cash. “In case you’ve forgotten, DeAngelo, last time you told me not to come back.”
DeAngelo? Why did that sound so familiar too?
Flavor Savor lifted his cigar and signaled to Patrick. “I said not to come back until you’d pulled yourself together. You look like your old self again.”
Elizabeth glanced at him. Sure, he looked better, much better, than he had the last three days they’d been together. A shower, a clean change of clothes, and getting out had been just what the doctor ordered. She’d even say he looked handsome, but he was also upset and falling back into bad habits. She couldn’t remember how many times her dad had promised to get sober. The road Patrick was on was a slippery slope.
The dealer tossed Patrick his cards, along with five black chips, ten red, and twenty blue. Elizabeth did a quick calculation in her head. Had Patrick really had that much money on him while they’d been out and about? Yikes. One thing was certain: he’d planned on coming here when they’d left earlier.
“If you’re here to win back your ring, you can forget it.” Flavor Savor placed his cigar on a crystal ashtray. “I’ve grown quite fond of the thing. Its plain, humble appearance suits me.”
Patrick grabbed his cards and rearranged them. “What you mean to say is its hold over me pleases you.”
The man chuckled. “Yes, that too.” He chewed on the end of his cigar. “I am a man who likes power. What can I say?”
“Are we here to chat or play poker?” Patrick looked over his cards at Flavor Savor, irritation evident in his tone.
The man paused, seemingly caught off guard by Patrick’s tone. A moment later, a small smile crossed Flavor Savor’s face. “But of course. On with the game.”
Elizabeth dropped her head to her hand. This was not going to end well. She reached for her mother’s cross, remembering it wasn’t there anymore too late to stop herself. Feeling her hair tickle at the back of her neck, she glanced down to find Patrick staring at her, at her hand as she lowered it. He turned away.
He really was going to play. Blast him.
Patrick was back on his A-game. An hour in and he’d won back every penny he’d lost a month ago—minus his wedding ring. The two other players both politely withdrew thirty minutes in, recognizing that Patrick not only wasn’t going to lose but also that it seemed he couldn’t. That left the game to him and DeAngelo.
DeAngelo hadn’t been expecting this game. He’d been expecting, like every other time Patrick had played over the last six months, to empty his wallet. And if he were counting on Patrick to play as he had last time, he had to be especially sore. He tried to hide it, but Patrick could see. He’d long since placed his fifty-dollar Cuban cigar in the ashtray without putting it out and hadn’t seemed to notice it burning down. Aside from that, he gripped his cards so tight the tips of his fingers turned white.
“I got to say; I didn’t expect you to do this well.” Elizabeth stood behind him. She’d spent half the night pacing the floor, but after his second win, she’d started paying close attention. “Are you cheating?”
He glanced at her and gave her an oh-please look, which made her smile. His cocky confidence did often appeal to women. Even Elizabeth was impressed, which for some reason made him proud. She seemed like she might be a difficult person to please. He was starting to rethink that, however. In fact, he was starting to rethink most of his first impressions of her. She did not fit easily into any mold.
The fact that she was a cop was something special. Of course, he’d seen female cops before but not often. And he’d be willing to bet she was excellent at her job. Her stick-to-it-ness alone had to be a good thing career-wise.
DeAngelo took two cards from the dealer and pursed his lips, his tell when his hand was good. Patrick took one card—not that he needed it. He had four of a kind and knew DeAngelo didn’t have the only hand that could beat him. Patrick knew because, for the first time in months that he’d come here, he was sober, and when he was sober, his mind automatically counted cards. Not that he’d stop it if he could. Especially not now.
Grabbing five black chips from his rapidly declining pile, DeAngelo tossed them to the center of the table and rubbed his fingers over his moustache. “I raise five thousand.”
Patrick glanced at his cards, then across
to DeAngelo and then away. He’d won this game, but what he wanted was his ring. DeAngelo wasn’t betting it, so Patrick had to make the man confident enough to play recklessly. After a moment, he grabbed five black chips of his own. He then threw in two more. “I see your five thousand and raise two thousand more.”
DeAngelo’s smile dropped, his eyes narrowing as he appraised Patrick, then took the two remaining chips he had, both only worth five hundred, and threw them into the pot. “You must have a good hand,” DeAngelo said, “if you’re betting more than I have. The good news is this is my club. I always have extra money somewhere.”
He snapped his fingers, and a guy who’d been standing by the door emerged from the shadows. He left the room.
“Wait, this guy owns Big Head?” Elizabeth asked.
Without being too obvious about it, Patrick threw a quick glance in her direction.
She blinked those thick lashes rapidly as she thought. “Is his first name Louis?”
Patrick nodded once, curious about how she knew. He didn’t know a lot about the man. He did know he owned this club, was an egomaniac and was a criminal of some sort. Patrick also knew the guy was dangerous, but he hadn’t worried because he’d never given the guy reason to be mad at him. Even when Patrick had started playing here, even when he’d done well, he’d always kept his winnings to a minimum so as not to attract too much attention. Tonight was a different story. Not that it mattered; he was getting his ring back regardless.
“Louis DeAngelo?” Elizabeth repeated.
Patrick kept his gaze on the man grinning in front of him.
She pointed at DeAngelo. “He’s in charge of one of the top crime syndicates in Sacramento. We’ve never been able to do anything to him, despite having ample evidence because he has diplomatic immunity. He could kill you right now, and there would be nothing anyone could do about it.”
The man DeAngelo had sent out returned with a stack of money. DeAngelo threw it on to the table without looking at it. “That should cover it.”
“Who’s the confident one now?” Patrick asked.
DeAngelo smiled. “I call.”
“I don’t like this, Patrick.” Elizabeth planted herself at his side.
Dead to Rights Page 6