In this case, though, Ginny had no idea what might be the right course: offering the automatons of this city an opportunity to fulfill their objectives or curtailing actions that might ultimately prove dangerous to the human community.
She needed another drink—but not here. Suddenly she wanted nothing so much as to escape this house.
A boozer—that was the ticket.
Chapter Eleven
“Well, if it ain’t Brendan Fagan.”
Brendan froze as the familiar Cockney accent sliced through the noise in the crowded tavern. He turned and his heart sank even as he pasted a big smile on his face. He’d come into the bar following a lead—one of the barmen here roomed next door to the cannery where the unpleasant manageress had been murdered, and he wondered if the fellow might have seen anything relevant.
He certainly didn’t expect to bump into an old lover. Such an occurrence seldom proved comfortable—especially a former lover such as this.
“Ruella, it’s been an age. How are you?”
Standing by the bar and half blocking it, Ruella Whedon eyed him up and down. Back in the days when she still worked as cook at the jail downtown, she’d wooed him with the best scones he’d ever tasted. Scones, however good, shouldn’t be enough to lure a man into a woman’s bed, and truthfully they hadn’t. Looking at her now, Brendan couldn’t really imagine what had attracted him, other than his innate sense of daring.
Ruella possessed a good heart, but going to bed with her had been a bit like an exercise in survival. Almost as tall as Brendan and built like a wrestler, she could break a man’s back if she chose. In a fistfight, she gave as good as she got. In fact, it wasn’t safe to tangle with her in or out of the bedroom.
“I’m fine and dandy,” she said now, continuing to examine him closely with her slightly protuberant eyes. Brendan remembered that look and to what it had all too often proved a preamble.
She’d better not be getting any ideas.
“Come and have a drink,” she bellowed. “You’re not on duty, are you?”
He wasn’t, not officially. He wore his street clothes and had come in here on his own time, hoping to nail down some of the questions that plagued him. Such as why were witnesses being so cagey about who—or what—they’d seen going in and out of these murder scenes?
He shook his head, and Ruella threw a beefy arm around his neck. “Come and sit down, lad.”
“No place to sit.”
“I got a table over there. Get yourself a drink. You still like the black ale?”
“Aye.”
Ruella signaled the barman with a raised eyebrow—not the fellow Brendan wanted to question—and two ales materialized with impressive speed. Ruella thrust one into Brendan’s hand and dragged him off to a scarred table up against the wall.
“So,” she asked when his fanny met the seat of the chair, “what brings you to this charming place?” The East London accent, bright as the clatter of tin, prompted a lot of memories for Brendan, many of them less than welcome.
Breaking up with Ruella hadn’t been easy; persuading her things between them had run their course had taken every drop of blarney Brendan possessed.
“Well,” he said, hoping to distract her from any amorous thoughts, “it’s about these murders.”
“Grisly, ain’t they?” She tipped her glass at him. “See, that’s the trouble with you, Brendan Fagan. You’re never really off duty even when you’re off duty. That’s why it didn’t work between us.”
“Right.” That and his well-honed sense of survival. Still, he was glad he’d had his wild ride with this woman—something likely to comfort him in his old age.
“You look good.” She eyed him again, apparently not about to be distracted by the murders. “Real good.”
“So do you,” Brendan declared. In truth she looked the same as ever—face like a particularly comely bulldog, brown hair caught in two bunches over her ears. He took a large gulp of ale. “You still working for the McMahons?”
Her face lit. “I am. Did you hear Mrs. Clara had a sprog?”
“I did.”
“Good as gold is little Graine, and adored by everyone in the house.”
“I’m happy for them.”
“As am I. They deserve it, do the McMahons. Good people.” She leaned back in her chair. “I’m thinking of following their lead, actually.”
Brendan’s mouth fell open. “Eh?”
“It’s a fine thing, innit, giving rise to the next generation? Despite how dangerous this city is, sometimes.”
Brendan’s blood ran cold. He hoped she hadn’t come here searching out a likely father for her proposed child.
“Tell me, Brendan Fagan, who do you think’s behind these murders? You’re a canny lad. You and I, we’ve seen both sides of these automatons. There’s those like Dax at the McMahons—not a nasty patch on ’im. And there’s those like Charles and Mason tried to create…killing machines. You remember that night?”
She widened bulging eyes, and Brendan nodded. Ruella had been there with him the night when, strapped to a cold table, he’d very nearly been killed by the two madmen who created the first hybrids.
“You have to remember Charles and Mason might have created their automatons to be killing machines, but the units didn’t stay that way. They’re now upright and valuable members of the Irish Squad.”
“True.”
“As for who’s behind these murders…”
“Automatons beating their masters to death. Can you warrant it?”
Brendan shook his head. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible if I hadn’t been there at the Crystal Palace when Landry’s Ladies beat Candace Landry to death.”
“I didn’t see it, me. I was otherwise occupied.” Ruella glanced toward the bar.
“All I know is something about these murders just smells wrong. That’s why I’m here, actually. I need to talk to one of the barmen.”
“Oh? Which one?” Ruella cocked her head, which made her look even more like an intelligent dog.
“Name’s Jeremy Black. He lives next to one of the murder scenes.”
“Oh.” An incredible expression crossed Ruella’s face, part coyness and part what looked like mal-de-mer. “Because the other barman over there—Bart—he’s my beau.”
“You don’t say?” Brendan looked to the bar and caught a glimpse of a massive figure with black hair, a wide moustache, and biceps at least as bulging as Ruella’s.
Well, there was the puzzle of a potential father for Ruella’s offspring solved, though Brendan’s mind boggled at what sort of infant such parents might produce.
Brawny, to say the least.
“A couple, are the two of you? Is it serious?”
“Serious as typhoid!” Ruella confirmed with satisfaction. She thrust out a meaty hand. “Just take a gander at this.” A diamond sparkled on her finger.
“By God, Ruella, congratulations! I’m that happy for you.” And he was, deeply and sincerely. “How’d you meet?”
“In a wrestling match. The fool thought he could take me.” Ruella grinned broadly.
Ah, well, Brendan could have told him better.
“I hope you’re not too disappointed, lad—me being off the market and all. What we had together was good, but all that’s in the past, you understand.”
“Agreed.”
“And take heart. Someday you’ll have a love of your own.”
“Will I, then?”
“You just need to loosen up some. I always thought that, back when we were seeing each other. A bit too devoted to his duty, is Brendan Fagan—near famous for it.”
Brendan bristled. Coming on the heels of what Virginia Landry had said about him—what had she called him, Officer Proper?—he didn’t need to hear this. Sourly he said, “It takes a great deal of hard work to advance in the force. Not many men make sergeant by my age.”
“That’s true, lad, and it’s proud of you I am. A light of the Buffalo Police force, so everyone s
ays. But I’d hate to see your youth pass you by and nothing to show for it but a sergeant’s stripes.” Ruella’s bulgy eyes met his. “Take a chance from time to time, Brendan. Have some fun.”
A vision of Virginia Landry once more appeared in Brendan’s mind. Aye, it would be fun to set her straight about him. Show her of just what he was made. Shock her a wee bit. Kiss her senseless.
“Well, now, I wonder what that look in your baby blues means? Come along, I’ll introduce you to my Bart.”
“I’d like that.” Brendan tossed back the rest of his drink and followed her to the bar, where the black-haired barman greeted her with a gap-toothed smile.
“Ruella, my lovely.”
“Hello, Bart. Look who I met. This is Brendan Fagan, police sergeant in the force.”
“I’ve heard of you, Officer Fagan.” Bart thrust an enormous hand over the bar, and Brendan shook it. “A rising star in this city, aren’t you?”
And when had that become his reputation around the city?
“And,” Ruella said proudly, “he’s a former lover of mine.” Everyone at the bar, unable to keep from overhearing, stared. Brendan waited for Bart’s fist to crash into his face.
But the fellow just nodded.
“Bart and I got no secrets from one another,” Ruella declared. “It’s the only way to begin a marriage, innit?”
It was. Brendan tucked it away for future reference. “Congratulations,” he told Bart sincerely. “You’ve won a woman in a thousand.”
“Ain’t that the truth? I’m the luckiest man alive, and no mistake.”
“I wish you every happiness. When’s the blessed day to be?”
Bart’s smile grew still wider. “My birthday, the day before Halloween. Hope you’ll do us the honor of attending—in an unofficial capacity, of course.”
“I’d be honored.”
“He’s off duty now,” Ruella put in, “but still looking to talk to Jeremy there about them murders going on round the city. Always working, this one.”
“Go talk to the officer, Jeremy,” Bart instructed his fellow barman. “I’ll cover for you.”
The amiable Jeremy complied, and they moved to the corner of the bar. Forthcoming as the barman was, it turned out he’d seen and heard nothing the night of the murder and was of the opinion that the automatons working at the cannery had been a mild-mannered lot, usually on the receiving end of their mistress’s temper.
“Hard to imagine them lifting a hand to her,” Jeremy concluded before returning to his post.
So it might be, Brendan reflected, eyeing Ruella and Bart, who shared a kiss across the bar. On the other hand, the most damned unexpected things did happen all the time.
Chapter Twelve
“Well, Miss Landry. Do you spend all your time in taverns?”
Ginny blinked as the warm Irish accent blossomed somewhere above her head. She knew that voice. At least her body seemed to; it lit and heated instantly, achieving an effortless state of half-arousal.
Looking up, she encountered just what she expected—a pair of intensely blue eyes in a handsome face.
“Sergeant Fagan.” Reaching out a bit unsteadily, Ginny seized both his arms at the biceps and felt a big, sloppy smile spread across her face. “So we meet again. Have you come to arrest me?” She leaned closer. “Surely there’s something I might do to duck whatever charge you mean to level at me?”
“I’ve just come off duty. And you’re drunk.”
“Off duty? How very un-un-usual.” Ginny backed off a step, though she didn’t let go of him. A swift inspection showed her he wore a rough-woven white shirt open at the neck and a pair of plain brown trousers. “Damn! You’re even handsomer out of the uniform.” Again she leaned close. “As if that were possible.”
He steadied her, one hand at each shoulder. “That’s not necessarily a good thing, is it? Not the way I understand it.”
“No, not good, Sergeant Fagan. If only you were homely.” She widened her eyes at him. “I wouldn’t mind some male company tonight.”
He lifted his brows. “A dangerous proposition, Miss Landry. ’Tis not wise, looking for male company in such a place as this.”
“I can handle myself.” She sized him up with a glance. “In any case, you’re here now to protect me, aren’t you, Sergeant Fagan?”
He gave a rueful smile. “Since I’m not on duty, you’d better call me ‘Brendan.’ ”
“Brendan.” She tried it out on her tongue.
“You do know this is one of the roughest taverns in the city?”
“Better hope there’s no trouble, then, especially since I don’t dare pull my c-cannon. Never know when some big, proper policeman will turn up and start throwing regulations around. Who’s your friend?”
Brendan Fagan turned to the man who hovered at his shoulder. “A colleague I just bumped into, Mitch Glenning.”
Glenning, nearly half a head shorter than Fagan, had sandy brown hair and an ordinary face. Ginny leaned into him. “Hmm, now, you’re more like it. You’re not an automaton, are you?”
“No, ma’am.” Glenning grinned.
“Good, because I hear they’re singularly ill-equipped.” Ginny abandoned Fagan and looped her arm through Mitch’s. “Let’s get a drink.”
“I’d love to, ma’am, I surely would. But I’m married.”
“If you’re married, what are you doing out in a boozer with this rapscallion?” It took her three attempts to pronounce the final word.
“My wife’s expecting our first baby, ma’am, due any day. And she’s awful crabby. She told me to get out of the house. I bumped into Brendan, and he kindly bought me a drink.”
“Isn’t that…nice. Is Sergeant Brendan often so kindly?”
“He has his moments. But ma’am, if I start drinking with another woman, Betsy will have the flesh off my bones.”
“But how will Betsy know, eh? Just one drink. Oh, that’s right—Officer Morality here might feel compelled to tell her.”
Strong fingers seized the back of her jacket; she was lifted effortlessly away from Glenning and set down again. “Leave the man be. And”—those blue eyes again, right in her face—“you’ve got me all wrong. I’m off duty, understand?”
“I’m not sure I do. I got the distinct impression you’re never off duty.”
“Wrong again. That being said, I think you’ve had quite enough to drink, Miss Landry. Why don’t you let me see you home?”
“Landry?” Glenning yelped. “Is she the one—?”
Ginny told him sorrowfully, “My mother was a terrible, terrible woman. But you see, I never knew her. Can I be blamed?”
“No, I guess not.” Glenning shot a glance toward the door as if he’d developed a sudden desire to escape.
Ginny cried, “Let me buy you a drink. What will you have, Mitch? And you, Brendan?”
The two officers exchanged speaking looks.
“Maybe just one,” Glenning said.
“And then, Miss Landry, I’ll be after seeing you home.”
“Will you, Officer Brendan? Even if I do not wish to go?”
“Mitch, go grab a table if you can find one. We’ll get the drinks.”
Ginny leaned up, chest to chest with Brendan Fagan, and peered into his face. “Do you like giving orders? She licked her lips. “Want to give me some?”
“I’d love to, but I’ll have to get that cannon off you first.”
“Why don’t you try?”
A curious look came into his eyes. “Because you’re tipsy. And dangerous.”
At the bar he ordered three ales and scanned the room in an effort to locate Glenning. “Come on, then.”
Ginny obeyed—she didn’t quite know why—pausing only to eye several ugly men along the way. One of them leered back at her, but Fagan grunted and the fellow, sizing him up, turned away.
Glenning had found a small table in the corner. Fagan set the glasses down and pushed Ginny into a chair. “Sit. Drink that slowly.”
&nb
sp; “Sure that’s a good idea, Brendan? She’s already pretty sloshed.”
“Good ale never hurt anybody.” Fagan took a long draught of his own before looking at Ginny steadily. “Now, tell me what you’re doing here.”
“I already did. I have decisions to make, and my house was too lonely.”
“So you came to the worst boozer you could find?”
“The liveliest. Seemed most likely I’d find companionship here.”
“Jesus,” Glenning said.
“Miss Landry, you are going to get into serious trouble if you keep this up. You choose the wrong fellow for ‘companionship,’ and you just might wind up in an alley somewhere.”
“You think I can’t take care of myself?”
Fagan’s gaze inspected her once again, slowly. “I’m sure you can, under ideal circumstances. This is far from ideal. Finish that drink and I’ll see you safe home.”
“Good idea.” Glenning took a big gulp of ale. “I have a feeling in my bones trouble’s brewing. I’d better get back to Betsy.”
“You sure about that, lad?”
Glenning rolled his eyes. “If she goes into labor while I’m away, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“I suppose not.”
Glenning flicked a glance at Ginny. “You need help?”
“Definitely not.”
Glenning drained his glass and got to his feet. “Nice meeting you, Miss Landry.”
“You too. Good luck with your new baby.”
Glenning nodded and went out. The atmosphere at the table changed. Ginny raised her eyes to Fagan’s.
“So you think you can handle me, do you?”
“Aye.”
“A confident man. I like that.”
“Too bad I’m not ugly, as well.”
“An awful pity.”
He knocked back more ale. “Perhaps you could contrive to overlook my physical appearance.”
“Well, now, that would be difficult, Officer Brendan. Very, very difficult.”
Last Orders Page 7