Jennifer Estep - Deadly Sting

“Now what?” Finn asked.

“Now we wait for Bria to take McAllister to booking,” I said. “Maybe if we ask nicely, Bria will send us a copy of McAllister’s mug shot. I think that would look marvelous matted, framed, and mounted on one of the walls in Fletcher’s office or maybe even at the Pork Pit. Don’t you?”

Life more or less went back to normal, although Jonah McAllister’s arrest and alleged involvement in the Briartop heist dominated the news. The media didn’t exactly convict the lawyer, but they raised enough questions to get all the crime bosses good and interested in exactly what had gone down that night and who had hired Clementine and her giants.

McAllister put some of Mab’s embezzled money to use to pay his three-million-dollar bail. I saw him on the news a few times, giving press conferences where he proclaimed his innocence before quickly ducking back into his house. The lawyer looked pale, thin, and shaken, and even his thick coif of silver hair had lost its normal shiny luster. Even when the cameras were fixed on him, his eyes always darted back and forth, as if he expected a hail of gunfire to ring out at any second and put him down for the count.

Good. Let the bastard sweat. He deserved it. Actually, he deserved worse, but this would do—for now. Like I’d told Finn, if McAllister managed somehow to wiggle out of my trap, I could always come up with a more permanent solution. I sort of hoped he would, just so I could finally kill him myself. Time would tell.

Three days after McAllister’s arrest, I was in the Pork Pit, chowing down on a cheeseburger that I’d made for my own supper, when the bell over the door chimed, and Bria stepped into the restaurant. She glanced around the storefront, looking over the diners. It was four in the afternoon. Too late for lunch and not quite time for the dinner rush to start, so there were only a few people sitting in the blue and pink vinyl booths next to the windows. The waitresses were in the back, taking a break, although Sophia Deveraux, Jo-Jo’s sister and the head cook at the Pit, was standing at the counter that ran along the back wall, slicing sourdough buns for the rest of the day’s sandwiches.

I was sitting on a stool behind the cash register, and Bria took a seat close to mine on the other side of the counter. Bria waved at Sophia, who grunted and waved back. The motion made the tiny silverstone skulls on the black leather collar around Sophia’s neck tinkle together. Unlike Jo-Jo, who was the epitome of a sweet southern lady, Sophia had fashion tastes that ran more toward Goth. Today she had on black boots, jeans, and a black T-shirt embossed with a white rose dripping scarlet blood from its thorns. The silver glitter on the T-shirt matched the streaks in her black hair.

In between bites of my cheeseburger, sweet-potato fries, and sweet iced blackberry tea, I’d also been reading through my latest book, as I so often did during lulls at the restaurant. In honor of the Briartop heist, I’d decided on Plunder Squad by Richard Stark. I grabbed a credit-card slip from underneath the cash register and used it to mark my place in the book before I set it to the side.

“Hey there, baby sister,” I said, pushing away the remains of my burger and fries.

“Hey there yourself.” Bria read the title on the spine. “What’s that about?”

“An art heist.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Okay . . . Is that our next book-club selection?”

“Nah,” I said. “I’m reading this one just for me. Besides, it’s Roslyn’s turn to pick something, remember?”

A few weeks ago, Bria and Roslyn had both read Little Women , which I had been reading at the time. In an effort to cheer me up and take my mind off my breakup with Owen, they’d shown up at Fletcher’s house one night, books in hand, along with some wine, cheese, and gourmet chocolates. The three of us had stayed up late drinking, eating, and talking about the book, along with everything else that was going on in our lives. We’d all had such a good time that we’d decided to make it into a monthly get-together.

Bria nodded. “I remember. Although next month, it’s my turn. I already know what I’m going to have us read.”

“And what would that be?”

“ The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett.”

“A detective novel, huh? Looks like I’m not the only one in an ironic mood. I approve.”

She grinned. “I thought you might. And I thought it was appropriate, given what happened at the museum. You know, Clementine going after something that wasn’t quite what it seemed, everyone’s plans spiraling out of control.”

I had to laugh. “Well, that’s one way of putting things, I suppose.”

Bria swiveled around on her stool and gazed out over the restaurant once again. “So how are things here? I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately, but I’ve been busy dealing with McAllister.”

“I know. I’ve seen you on TV more than once.”

She blanched. “I hate dealing with all those reporters. Sometimes I think they’re more vicious and bloodthirsty than the criminals.”

“Actually, to answer your question, the past few days have been quite relaxing,” I said. “No one’s come in and tried to kill me this week.”

“They’re all focused on McAllister right now,” Bria said. “And with good reason. No matter how many times I listen to his confession, I still can’t quite believe he arranged the museum heist and that he almost got away with it. That he would have gotten away with it, if you hadn’t been there.”

“And if Jillian hadn’t been wearing the same dress as I was,” I said in a soft voice.

Jillian’s face flashed in front of my eyes the way it had so often in the past few days. Her warm eyes, her easy laugh, her soft smile. All gone forever—because of me.

“Yeah,” Bria said. “That too. How are you doing with that?”

I shrugged. “Fletcher always taught me to avoid collateral damage. To focus on my target, hit that person, and not involve anyone else before, during, or after my crime. I know that Jillian dying wasn’t my fault—not really—but I still can’t help but feel responsible for it all the same.”

She nodded. “I can understand that. But this is Ashland, Gin. People get hurt all the time in this city. You can’t save everyone.”

I’d told myself that more than once, but it still didn’t keep me from waking up in the middle of the night, the image of Jillian’s shattered face fresh in my mind, and me fighting the sheets twisted around my body, as if I could save her if only I could get free of them.

“McAllister would have still hired Clementine to rob the museum whether you’d been there or not,” Bria continued. “Maybe Jillian would have gotten caught in the crossfire and still died. Maybe it would have been someone else. There’s no way of knowing.”

“Or maybe nobody would have died,” I countered. “Maybe if I’d realized what Clementine and the others were up to, I could have stopped them before things got so out of hand.”

Bria reached over and squeezed my fingers, telling me that she understood my troubled, turbulent thoughts. We were silent for a few moments, then she let go of my fingers and leaned back. She gestured at the cake stand that featured the dessert of the day: a peach pie.

“Is there any chance of me getting a slice of that?” she asked. “And maybe a few other vittles to whet my whistle with?”

I grinned. Bria knew that cooking always helped take my mind off my troubles, and asking for the food was her way of trying to lighten my mood. “Sure thing, baby sister. One fine meal, coming right up.”