The Woman He Knows

by Margaret Watson

  Patrick turned to her and she retreated another step. “He a problem?”

  “Jesse? Nah.” She cleared her throat. “We were just talking.” So much for flying below Patrick’s radar. Now that he wondered what was going on between her and Jesse, he’d be watching more closely.

  “I don’t like guys who won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Then there’s no problem. Jesse wasn’t asking any questions.” She didn’t want Patrick to get involved. To think about her. But in spite of herself, she warmed a little inside. It had been a very long time since someone tried to protect her. “Patrick. The whole ‘watch out for my employees’ thing is sweet. But do not worry about Jesse. There’s nothing there.”

  “Good. Because no one is going to harass my waitresses.”

  Time to lighten this up. “Wow. You really are Mr. Serve and Protect, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I am.” He held her gaze. No smile.

  When he finally walked away, she swallowed. Okay. In spite of that little flash of heat, she had another reason to stay as far away from Patrick as possible. He was as straight as they came. Someone who believed in right and wrong. Black and white.

  She was all about the gray.

  * * *

  TWO NIGHTS LATER, as Darcy set the first martini down in front of Theresa, she clenched her teeth to keep from exploding. Theresa wore more makeup than usual, but even a heavy layer of foundation couldn’t quite hide the swollen bruise on the left side of her face.

  “Can I get you something to eat?” Darcy asked quietly.

  Theresa shook her head. “I’m not hungry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Darcy couldn’t tear her gaze away from Theresa’s bruise. What was the woman hiding beneath her long-sleeved, turtleneck shirt? “I can help you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Theresa took a sip of her drink and stared out the window. “No. You can’t.”

  “Theresa...”

  “He’s watching,” the woman said. “Pretend you’re taking my order.”

  Darcy fumbled her notepad out of her pocket, her hand shaking.

  As she tried to frame a question about Theresa’s injuries, the woman glanced over her shoulder. Darcy followed her gaze and saw that, instead of watching the baseball game, the man who always accompanied Theresa was staring at Darcy, his eyes as hard as chips of stone.

  Darcy touched Theresa’s shoulder. “I’ll put your order in,” she said, loud enough for the guy to hear her.

  As she stood at the computer terminal nearest to Theresa’s table, she felt the bodyguard’s gaze on her back. She ordered a cup of soup—she had to deliver something, and soup was easy to eat.

  The first time Darcy got a break, she confronted Patrick, who was standing at the host’s podium. “We need to talk.”

  His head snapped up. “What’s wrong?”

  “Privately.”

  He nodded once and drew Darcy toward the front patio. It was too cold now to seat people outside so they wouldn’t be overheard.

  The air was crisp and cool, and a few faint stars twinkled in the indigo sky. The spicy scent of the mums in the planters by the door tickled her nose.

  “What’s up?” Patrick asked.

  Darcy held on to the railing behind her as she stared up at Patrick. In the late twilight darkness, his eyes looked navy blue. “Did you see her? Theresa, the woman I told you about?” Her voice rose, and she gripped the railing until the edges cut into her palms. “She’s got a bruise on the side of her face.”

  Patrick stilled. “No, I didn’t notice,” he finally said. “She came in at the same time as a big group. I was setting tables up for them.”

  “She covered it with makeup, but it’s too much to hide. I want to call the police.”

  Patrick reached for her, but dropped his hand at the last moment. “Did you ask her what happened?”

  “I told her I could help her.”

  “What did she say?”

  Darcy closed her eyes. Pictured Theresa’s face—her fear. Her desolation. “She said I couldn’t.”

  “If you call the police, she’ll give them one of the stock answers—she walked into a door. Tripped. Lost her balance.” A hint of anger rumbled through his voice. “That won’t help her, Darcy.”

  “If I get her license plate number, can you look her up? Find out where she lives?”

  “Why? So you can kick her husband’s ass?”

  “Don’t I wish.” Darcy tightened her grip on the railing. “No, I’m not going to confront her husband. I know not to poke a stick at a poisonous snake. I just want to be able to keep an eye on her.”

  “Darcy, even if I could do that, which I can’t, no way would I tell you where she lived. You showing up at her door would make things worse for that poor woman.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? But do you have any idea how hard it is to watch her come in here, beaten to hell, and do nothing about it?”

  “Until she asks for help, there’s nothing you can do.” His voice softened and he put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s a hard thing to accept. But you can’t force her to change.”

  She knew that far too well. She just hated that it was true.

  The weight of his hand was warm. Comforting. The pressure of his fingers seeped through her thin blouse, heating her skin. “Someone needs to help her.” All of Darcy’s neighbors had ignored the shouting, the screams from her house. She wanted to think that if someone had tried to help, she would have let them.

  “You’re doing all you can.”

  “All I want is her address.”

  “Sorry, Darcy. No can do.”

  “You can’t make an exception? Just this once?”

  “No. Not even once.” He took his hand off her shoulder, and she shivered. Patrick watched her for a moment longer, then headed back into the restaurant.

  As the door closed behind him with a whoosh, she kicked at one of the chairs. It scraped across the concrete sidewalk with a screech, reminding her of the night Nathan was injured. Abruptly, she hurried back into the building.

  As she passed the podium, Patrick returned to his post after seating a group of four. Her fingers closed around the order tablet in her apron pocket. She wanted to throw it at his head.

  She uncurled her hand from the paper as the realization hit. She had learned something valuable. She hurried to the podium. “Patrick,” she began.

  He turned to her, annoyed. “The answer is no.”

  “I want to get this straight. You won’t step over the line and look up information about someone, even if you’re suspicious of them?”

  “That’s right. I won’t. Not without a solid reason.”

  “Even if you have a feeling something is wrong?”

  “I need facts. Information. Not feelings.”

  Relief coursed through her. So he wouldn’t look up Darcy Gordon. As long as she didn’t give him a reason to do so.

  “Okay. I wanted to be clear.”

  “And are you?”

  “Crystal.”

  He studied her for a long moment. “You don’t strike me as the type who gives up. FYI, you wouldn’t be the first relentless person to come after me.”

  “Good to know you’re consistent.” She hoped he’d be just as consistent if he ever became suspicious of her.

  * * *

  THE DINNER RUSH had slowed, and Patrick walked through the dining rooms, studying every table that still held customers. In the past few weeks, he’d learned that managing a restaurant was a little like being a cop. You had to be able to read people, be aware of subtle signals, sense when a situation was going to hell.

  The two toddlers at the table in the corner were throwing crayons at each other, their mouths
trembling. All signs pointed toward an imminent meltdown. He smiled as he approached the harried-looking young couple. “Enjoying your dinner?” he asked. “Anything you need?”

  The guy shook his head. “We’re good. Thanks.”

  The wife gave him a strained smile. “Could you have our waitress bring some take-out containers and the check? I think our kids are getting tired.”

  “Will do,” Patrick said. “Thanks for coming to Mama’s tonight.”

  The woman’s shoulders relaxed. “It’s our favorite restaurant.”

  “I’ll tell my brothers.” Patrick made a mental note to have Phyllis comp the couple a dessert to take home.

  He swerved toward the bar, studying the man sitting on the end stool. This must be the guy who always came with Darcy’s customer.

  The guy was bulked up. Locker meat. A hint of acne on the back of his neck—a juicer, maybe. His dark hair was military-short, and his jacket stretched unevenly over his chest.

  As he watched, the bodyguard shoved an empty glass toward Jesse. The bartender pulled a bottle of scotch off the top shelf, filled the glass and placed it in front of the guy, who picked it up and took a gulp. A little amber liquid sloshed out of his glass as he set it on the bar.

  How many had the guy had? Patrick might have to take away his keys. He walked to the other end of the counter and motioned to the bartender. “That guy in the corner?” he said quietly. “Let me see his tab.”

  Jesse gave him a puzzled look. “There is no tab.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Chuck doesn’t pay for his drinks.” Jesse looked up from the glass he was washing. “Didn’t Nathan tell you?”

  “No, he didn’t. What’s he drinking?”

  “Macallan. The Eighteen.”

  Their most expensive scotch. “How many?”

  “Four or five.”

  Patrick studied the guy. His broad shoulders and thick neck signaled bodybuilder. Why was Nathan letting this goon drink Macallan for free? “What do we charge for that stuff?”

  “Twenty-one bucks a pop.”

  His gaze shot back to the bartender. “He’s drinking almost a hundred bucks of scotch two, three times a week? On our tab?”

  Jesse shrugged. “Has been for a while.”

  “And Nathan’s good with this?”

  “Must be. He okayed it.”

  “It’s not okay anymore. I don’t know what Nathan’s deal is, but from now on, if Chuck wants to drink for free, he drinks the cheap stuff. Give him the well scotch.”

  Jesse glanced over his shoulder at Chuck. “He won’t like that.”

  “Too damn bad. I’m running the place now, and we’re not giving that stuff away. If he has any complaints, he can take it up with me.”

  Jesse set the clean glass carefully in one of the racks. “Look forward to seeing that.”

  Ten minutes later, Patrick heard the sound of raised voices from the bar. When he walked in, Chuck was red-faced and yelling at Jesse. “Is there a problem here?” Patrick asked.

  “Yeah.” Chuck swiveled on the bar stool. “This guy tells me I can’t have another scotch.”

  Patrick nodded to Jesse, who headed toward the far end of the bar. “I don’t know what your arrangement is with my brother,” he said, leaning closer to Chuck. “But anyone drinking on the house tab gets the well brand. Starting tonight.”

  “I don’t drink that crap,” Chuck said, but he leaned away from Patrick.

  “Sorry to hear that. You can have beer or wine if you’d prefer. House brands.”

  The guy’s narrow eyes became even smaller. His expression bristled like the stubble on his head, and his right hand drifted toward the lapel of his jacket.

  Patrick watched as the guy flexed his fingers. Goddamn it. The asshole was carrying.

  Chuck let his hand drop. “You might want to check with your brother on that.”

  “I intend to.” He nodded. “Have a good evening.”

  As Patrick walked away, he ran through his list of contacts in the Chicago police department. Danny Kopecki still worked this district, as far as he knew. Maybe he’d give the guy a call. Suggest they have a beer and catch up.

  Minutes later, Chuck stormed through the dining room, grabbed Theresa’s arm and towed her along as he left the restaurant. When the door slammed behind them, Darcy rushed toward the patio. Patrick heard the throaty growl of a big car roaring out of their parking lot.

  As the noise died away, she hurried back inside, scowling. “What happened?”

  “Apparently, Chuck doesn’t like our new bar policy.”

  “Which is?”

  “If you drink free, you don’t drink the good scotch.”

  She frowned. “That guy doesn’t pay for his drinks? How come?”

  “A question I’ll be asking Nathan.”

  “We should be charging him double,” she muttered. “From what Jesse says, he’s a pain in the ass.”

  “He’s gone, so we’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

  “He won’t be back tomorrow. Theresa rarely comes two days in a row.”

  “Good. That’ll give him time to cool off.”

  Darcy glanced out the window again, then studied his face for a moment. “I hope this doesn’t make it harder on Theresa.”

  “Shouldn’t have anything to do with her.”

  Her gaze lingered for a long moment. “I hope not.”

  As the evening wound down and Marco was beginning the kitchen clean up, Patrick drew him off to the side. “There was a guy in the bar tonight, drinking our Macallan Eighteen, on the house. A lot of it. He said Nate okayed it. What’s going on?”

  Marco hunched his shoulders and concentrated on scraping off the grill, drawing a flat piece of steel over the blackened surface in even, regular lines. “Got no idea what you’re talking about, Paddy.”

  ‘You don’t know about that goon Chuck drinking for free?”

  “I run the kitchen. Nate runs the rest of the place.” He let the charred crumbs drop into the well at the edge of the grill and began again.

  “Marco! Stop.”

  His brother scraped one more line, then slapped the blade on the grill. “What?” He frowned at Patrick. “I need to clean the kitchen. I want to get out of here sometime tonight.”

  He reached for the blade again, and Patrick slapped a hand on it. “I’m worried there’s a problem here. Nate is jumpy and secretive. He insisted on doing the books and handling the money. That goon gulps our best scotch like it’s water and doesn’t pay a dime. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “No problems, bro. Other than Nate being gone. Once he’s back here, we’ll be good.”

  Patrick stared at Marco, wondering why his brother’s words hit like a blow even though he was right. Patrick didn’t belong here. He belonged back in Detroit. Nathan was the one in charge of Mama’s.

  “You think I want to be here?” He glared at Marco. “I have a job in Detroit. Cases I should be working. A life. But I thought this was what families did. Help each other out. Do what needs to be done.” He took a step toward Marco and satisfaction ripped through him when his brother reared back. “I know everyone here misses Nathan. That he knows what he’s doing, and I don’t. But I’m all you have right now. You can shut me out, but if there’s something wrong at Mama’s, I’m going to find out what it is.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  AS SHE FINISHED the cleanup in the dining room, Darcy heard Patrick’s voice in the kitchen. Then Marco’s.

  Both men were shouting.

  Yesterday, she would have tried to settle them down. Tonight, she didn’t care what they were fighting about. She needed to get out of here.

  Patrick had watched her all night. Wherever she went, whatever she was doing
, she’d felt his gaze.

  Every time she’d stepped into the dining room, Patrick had tracked her. She’d spilled a cup of coffee on the floor, almost dropped tiramisu into a customer’s lap. Worry about Patrick and what he’d seen bled into worry about Theresa.

  She had to do something.

  She had to get Theresa to safety. Then, when Nathan came back to work, she could disappear again. Start over somewhere else.

  She should be relieved. Escape was only a few weeks away.

  Instead, her throat swelled and her chest hurt. She’d miss Mama’s.

  She’d miss the people.

  She pushed through the kitchen door, grabbed her purse out of her locker and headed toward the back door just as the kitchen phone rang. Marco and Patrick were having a stare-down, so she grabbed it.

  “Hola, Marisol,” she said when she heard Javier’s wife’s voice. Marisol’s voice rose as she spoke rapidly in Spanish, and Darcy held the phone away from her ear.

  She murmured a few comforting words until Marisol calmed down, then asked a couple of questions. After assuring the woman that Javier’s job would be waiting for him when he returned to Mama’s, she hung up the phone.

  “Marco, that was Marisol,” she said. “Javier is doing okay, but you should probably look for a temporary cook. Sounds as if it’ll be a couple of weeks before he’s back.”

  “Damn it!” Marco picked up the tool he used to clean the grill and hurled it across the room, barely missing Luis’s head. “He’s been here for two months and just gotten to the point of working on his own. Now I have to train someone new?”

  Darcy looked from Marco to a white-faced Luis to the blade on the floor. The perfect topper for a crappy night. “What are you, Marco, some kind of diva chef now? You been watching too much Food Channel?” She picked up the blade and pointed it at him. “Trust me, dude. You’re not all that.”

  Marco scowled as he grabbed the tool from her, and an uneasy murmur slid through the room. Darcy slung her purse over her shoulder, feeling the reassuring weight of her gun settle against her hip, and headed for the back door. As she hurried past Patrick, he held out his fist for a bump. She ignored it. She didn’t know what they’d been arguing about, but they were both idiots.