“He was in your little fantasy last night.”
A loud knock sounded on Max’s private door on the lower level. Max had her own entrance at the bottom of the stairs. “If he’s wearing black and red flannel, you’re going straight to hell, Cameron Starr.”
He exited the window with a peal of ghostly laughter.
Thank your lucky stars, Cameron.
Witt wore black jeans and a pink gecko shirt from Hawaii. Thank God he wasn’t wearing red. But damn, with his blond hair, he looked good in hot pink, even if it wasn’t a particularly macho color. And cops were a real macho breed. But then, Witt did seem to stand out from the slobbering bunch she’d seen at his station house.
“Ready?”
He was taking her to the Round Up. Research. She’d been leery of tackling it on her own. It was far too soon after her last debacle of a “date” at the Round Up to test herself alone at the scene of her own crimes.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” She’d dressed in her customary work attire—black blazer, black pants, white shirt, striped tie, and black suede heels. The shoes were not because Witt had mentioned them last night. They were the only style of dress shoes she owned.
She locked the door behind her, then turned to drool at the sight of the pristine Ram. Black was damn hard to keep clean. However, it was the red detailing that really got her motor running. Something about a sharp blond guy driving a red-on-black truck. Something about the dream of what he’d done to her on the hood of that truck ...
Jeez. Dropping Witt and a black Ram smack dab in front of her was worse temptation than jiggling a full bottle of gin in front of a dried-out alcoholic.
“Max?” Witt touched her elbow.
Max jumped and almost squeaked like an idiot. “Umm, new truck?” she managed to say.
“Had it awhile.” The gleam in his eye said it was his pride and joy, sort of akin to having a twelve-inch ... love tool.
Cameron’s laughter whistled through the trees.
Chapter Four
They stopped for a bite to eat at the Cattle Barn before going to the Round Up. Witt exploded over a beer and the biggest steak Max had ever seen.
“You did what?” Red-faced, he dropped his knife. The clatter of steel on ceramic was loud enough to draw attention.
“I got a job at A Cut Above.” The bubbles of her champagne cocktail tickled her nose. She wanted to giggle, but stifled it as he glared at her.
“This isn’t a game for amateurs,” he said in that dictatorial, let-a-man-do-his-job tone. She should have known he wasn’t above it. Most men weren’t, not even dead men like Cameron.
“I needed a job to pay the rent. Now I’ve got one. I start tomorrow.” She set the champagne glass on the table and picked up her knife and fork. She’d choke on her food before she’d let him have the upper hand.
“Max—”
She narrowed her eyes and gave him that I’m-a-woman-so-don’t-mess-with-me look. It was enough to shut him up. “I’ll be as careful as I was at Hackett’s Appliances.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s what worries me.”
She’d only taken the job to help him find a killer. “What happened there wasn’t my fault, you know.”
“Promise me one thing.”
She eyed him warily. “What?”
“That you won’t drive anyone at that hair place to attempted murder in less than a week.”
“Actually, it took a little under two weeks the last time.”
She flashed him a bright smile, then munched on an unappealing piece of broccoli while pretending fascination with the surroundings. A hanging lamp covered with cowhide provided muted illumination. The mustard-colored vinyl chairs were hideously out of fashion, and the indoor-outdoor, urine-yellow carpet tiles were frayed around the edges. Plexiglas divided the booths, insulating them while at the same time allowing Max an impressive view of masticated food in the mouth of the man seated at the next table.
Witt’s beeper had gone off twice so far during dinner, and despite the privacy of the Plexi walls, he’d excused himself to make the return calls on his cell phone. Thank God he’d returned each time. She couldn’t have tackled the Round Up on her own, not with champagne fizzing in her veins.
“And how is everything, you two?” The waitress had a perky face, perky breasts, perky butt, and the most annoyingly perky attitude.
“Just perky, thanks,” Max said. Witt had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. When the waitress left, Max returned to talk of their investigation. “I visited the bus station.”
He narrowed his gaze. “And just what did you find?”
Nothing. Zippo. Nada.
“I ruled it out as a home for key 452. I also ruled out the YMCA, and the local gym.” She’d spent the afternoon canvassing the neighborhood within a four-block radius of the Round Up. No snake-tattooed wino. No lockers numbered higher than sixty-five.
Witt sighed, picked up his fork. “Guess there’s no point in asking you not to approach this guy on your own.”