“Of course you don’t. That would require you to actually sleep, and we all know you’re too busy working to do that,” he said, pushing his dark-rimmed glasses over his nose with a grin. “Also for the record, I’m not sneaking. I’m simply testing your awareness along with the security measures of this fine establishment, and logging statistics on the most successful methods of gaining entry to public venues undetected. The findings could be useful the next time you go undercover.”
Isabella swallowed the urge to laugh. Leave it to the intelligence unit’s tech guru to blame his skulking around on statistical research. James Capelli was the best in the field, although he didn’t even have a hairsbreadth of room to talk about going the eat-sleep-breathe route for work. “You say potato, I say see you later. I’ve got to jump.”
Hollister pointed to an empty bar stool at the next table as Capelli commandeered the one she’d just left vacant. “There’s still plenty of room if you want to stick around. We can see if they’ve got any ibuprofen behind the bar, and it’s still pretty early. Plus, Capelli’s giving me the juice on all of this weekend’s football games.”
Isabella’s nod and smile made their belated appearance as she pulled her leather jacket over her shoulders. Dodge. Deflect. Make your exit. “Isn’t gambling a bit of a conflict of interest for cops?”
“Online fantasy football is a perfectly legal game of skill,” Hollister said, waggling his brows at her you-can’t-be-serious expression. “And despite being able to crunch all those stats like soda cans, he never bets on the games himself. Don’t you think someone should reap the benefits of this guy’s freaky-deaky brain power?”
Maxwell snorted, saving Isabella from having to dig up a comeback. “Hate to break it to you, man, but you reap the benefits every time he hooks you up with high-end surveillance tech or some piece of obscure evidence he uncovers while data mining the entire fucking Internet.”
“Now, now, Detective.” Capelli grinned, pausing for only a second to flag down a passing waitress and order a beer. “I only data mine most of the Internet.”
“Stop being so modest,” Hale said, busting Capelli’s chops all the way. “You have a photographic memory, for Pete’s sake. As far as techies go, I think you’re the king of the Internet.”
Maxwell shook his head. “Laugh now, partner. But when he swaps out your DMV picture with a headshot of Elmer Fudd, you won’t think it’s so funny.”
“Come on, Maxwell. That was three whole years ago, and I changed it back after a day and a half. Plus, Hale here is way more Tweety Bird.”
Everyone in the group broke into easy laughter. Isabella’s stomach tightened at the camaraderie free-flowing around the table, and she took a step back. Go. Go now. “On that note of brotherly love, I’ll see you guys on Monday, yeah?”
Offering up one last round of goodbyes, she cut a quick path out of the Crooked Angel, measuring both her footsteps and her heartbeats until the chatter and pulse of the bar noise gave way to the quiet hum of the streetlights overhead. To calm the unease bubbling in her stomach, she ordered the tasks in front of her into a checklist—grab keys from right pocket, double-check ankle holster, find an inconspicuous parking spot on Delancey Street—mentally crossing off each item upon completion. Sinking just low enough into the driver’s seat of her Mustang to find the perfect line of sight on the city block in front of her, Isabella killed the engine and let herself blend into the shadows. The laughter-filled banter between her unit-mates filled her mind, tugging at her senses until the strains of a different happy laughter washed over her from a memory.
“Oh, it’s awful, prima!” Marisol’s face pinched, her girlish features combining with her adolescent disdain. “Are you sure we’re drinking it right?”
Isabella had no idea, but she was three years older than Mari, and her fourteen-year-old pride refused to let her cop to her cluelessness. “I’m positive. My papi says black coffee makes you strong.”
“It tastes so bitter,” Marisol said, her big, dark eyes hesitating over the cup cradled between her palms. “I want to be grown up, but I don’t want to drink the rest.”
Isabella reached for the white china cup, the light glinting off the gold-rimmed edges as she smiled at her cousin, squeezing her hand. “It’s okay,” she said, pouring the contents into her own cup even though she’d hated the taste of the coffee just as much as Marisol had. “I’ll drink it. Don’t worry. You’re still grown up for trying.”
“Thank you, Isa. You always watch out for me…”