“Let’s go.”
A smooth transition to the car, then they were back on the road, headed for Eye Candy. “You’re going to be late.”
“It’s expected,” she said, her attention focused on the street. “Things are looking good.”
He didn’t say anything. He saw too much of the East Side’s underbelly to appreciate a few planters and a couple of new businesses.
Eye Candy was located on the next street over from the construction zone for Mobile Media’s new data division and call center. The front of the bar faced Thirteenth Street while the back patio’s wrought-iron fence opened to what would be Mobile Media’s nicely landscaped headquarters. Right now bulldozers, cement trucks, and a huge crane dominated a big hole in the ground, girders and concrete rising from the poured foundation.
The door opened and Matt Dorchester’s girlfriend Eve braced it open. The skirt of her gray dress swirled in the wind as she called, “Hi! Get in here before you freeze to death!”
More hugging while he stood off to the side and did his job. No one had followed them from the restaurant, but he couldn’t shake the memory of the car’s taillights, bloodred and ominous as they disappeared over the hill. He’d been in the bar before, when Eve had worked as an informant for the department. He was never quite sure what to say around her, for two reasons. A few months earlier in the heat of the summer, he’d killed someone in front of her. Heroics aside, in the aftermath, it was awkward. The other reason was that he’d never seen two people look at each other like Eve and Matt did: as long as they had each other, they could handle anything.
“Is Matt coming later?” Cady asked, shrugging out of her coat.
“He thinks so. It depends on calls. Give me your purse, too. I’ll put them both upstairs in my office. Get whatever you want from the bar,” she called as she climbed the stairs. Eve navigated the spiral staircase pretty well for a tall woman in spike heels.
Cady walked behind the bar and surveyed the worktop like she knew what she was doing. “What can I get you?”
“Coke,” Conn said.
She scooped ice then aimed the nozzle into one of those tall slender glasses that holds far less than it looks like it does, then ran water for herself. He raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve spent more than my fair share of time in bars,” she said. “Singing, waitressing, bartending. For a while I thought that’s as far as I’d go. Thanks for letting me do the interview here,” Cady said when Eve crossed the dance floor.
“Are you serious? You’re doing me a favor,” Eve said, settling onto one of the bar stools. Both women had their cell phones out for a selfie. There was a moment of silence when he assumed they were posting to various social media sites. Eve set her phone facedown on the bar. “I can’t buy publicity like this, and it’s good to be in the paper for my actual business plan—entertaining people—not for taking down a drug ring.”
“Did business fall off after what happened?”
“Immediately after, no,” Eve said. “Lots of gawkers and first-time customers. We had a couple of slow months in the fall, but after I opened the patio for a Halloween party it picked back up again.”
Cady nodded. “You’ve got to keep things fresh.”
A brisk round of knocks ended the conversation. Cady unwrapped her scarf while Eve let in a woman carrying a big purse and a man with camera equipment around his neck. Conn sized them up. The photographer wore credentials for the Star Trib, and had been around a few crime scenes. He recognized the reporter, Hannah Rafferty, from her picture next to the columns she wrote. Human interest stuff, mostly. Features seemed to be her specialty. He turned his attention back to Cady, to find that she’d changed once again, holding herself straighter, cocking her head to the side just a bit, a big smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes on her face. Even her laughter and voice were different, a little higher, a little younger.
So there was concert Cady, sleepy Cady, at-home Cady, and now this Cady, who seemed to be a dialed-down iteration of concert Cady, wearing a version of the same smiling mask.
He understood why. He did the same thing himself. The man who appeared in photos with Shane didn’t look much like the cop he glimpsed in the rearview mirror during a traffic stop or in plate glass windows at crime scenes. But this, with the makeup and hair and clothes, was almost a disappearing act.
He faded into the background while the reporter, photographer, and Cady determined the best location for the interview. They settled on the bar, Cady directly under one of the canister lights.
“Mind if I record this?”
“Not at all,” Cady said.