"I have to go talk to a notorious crime lord and accuse him of sending men after me and trying to put a hit out on his ex-girlfriend, who is the only witness to a murder he committed."

"Do I have time to finish my burger?"

"I guess. But why are they called crime lords? Why not crime douche bags? Or crime asswipes? Why do they have to sound so cool?" I glanced up at the marquee. "Oh, your number's up."

He scooted out of the booth again. It was kind of charming.

"And hurry up before your food gets cold."

He turned the corner and flipped me off at the same time. See? Men could multitask. I was so proud of him. Since I sat there with nothing better to do than watch the man in the next booth argue with his ketchup, I summoned Angel. I told him about my latest dilemma, gave him some rather explicit orders, then listened to him curse in Spanish before he asked if he could see me naked. When I said, "Only if you can navigate time and watch my perilous journey through my mother's birth canal," he vanished to do my bidding.

"Why me?" Garrett asked when he sat back down with his food.

I took a bite of his burrito. "Wow," I said, rolling my eyes in ecstasy, "excellent choice. And why you what?"

"Why not get your boyfriend to be your wingman?"

"He's cooking this afternoon. Sammy had to go get his cast off." The regular cook had broken his leg trying to ski off his roof. Tequila often gave people the desire to tackle the impossible. It did not, however, make the impossible possible.

"Who's the crime lord?"

"Phillip Brinkman."

"The car salesman? He's a crime lord?"

"Apparently." I stopped and gaped at him. "Did you just take a bite of your sweet roll?"

"I paid for it."

"And?" I took the plate and slid it out of his reach. Not really, though, because he had a ridiculous reach, which he demonstrated when he stole another bite with effortless ease. Thankfully, their sweet rolls were big enough to feed a small country.

"If Mr. Car Salesman of the Year was going to send men to my apartment carrying suppressed Glocks, the least he can do is offer me a discount on a new Porsche."

"Should we, I don't know, devise a plan?"

"Do you think that's wise? I've always just kind of winged it."

"No," he said, his faux surprise chafing.

I strolled into the dealership wearing the wire Garrett had pinned to my bra between Danger and Will. Thankfully, Reyes never had to know that little fact. After pretending to browse a few minutes, and turning down a very enthusiastic salesperson, I made my way back to Phillip Brinkman's office. The man was facing murder charges, and yet there he was at work, nary a care in the world. He was a cool one. And he looked about as much like a crime lord as my great-aunt Lillian. He looked more like an accountant with dark hair, pale skin, and eyes too large for his face.

I took a seat across from his desk. He looked up from his paperwork, a little startled. No, that was fear in his eyes. A lot startled. He'd either had too much coffee or he was expecting someone else.

He scanned the area past his office then asked, "May I help you with something?"

"You may. If you're going to send men in black masks to my apartment and have them point a gun at my head so I'll find your girlfriend, I suggest you pick better men."

I'd confused him. The fear was still there, but I'd definitely confused him. Damn it. He had no idea what I was talking about.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

Back to square one. Then again, this guy was up for murder. And the men in masks wanted the whereabouts of the woman set to testify against him. That was a little more than a thin connection.

I frowned at him. Maybe if the cops had a body, it would help their case.

I leaned forward, and a wave of fear washed through him. His poker face was worse than mine. His too-large eyes rounded exponentially. "Where's the body, Brinkman?"

"Are you a cop?"

"Depends. Would you be more likely to tell me where the body was if I were?"

"No."

"Nope. I am not a cop. Not even a little. Now, where's the body?"

"They're looking for Emily?"

"Depends. Who's Emily?"

"My girlfriend."

"Oh! Right, then yes they are." Fear and something painfully close to a full-on panic attack rolled out of him in waves. "Are you gonna talk or am I going to have to -?"

"Why would they go to you?" he said, interrupting. Dang it, and I had a really good threat planned. It involved fire ants, sandpaper, and a cement mixer.

I crossed my legs. "I don't know. Maybe because I have a sign on my head that says 'aim here.' Or it could be because I have access to information through different sources. They must think I can get her address. But it's WITSEC we're talking about here. It doesn't matter who I know, I am not getting that kind of info. You need to tell them that."

He rubbed his mouth and kept his hand there a long moment. Sweat ran down his temples, and his stomach churned in protest to the stress.

"Look, Phillip," I said, changing my tactics, "you made a mistake. It happens. Trying to kill your girlfriend will not rectify anything."

He nodded. "You got one thing right," he said absently, "I made a mistake. Lots of them, but Emily was not one of them. Is she is she okay?"

He was genuinely concerned about her. Clearly, he had no involvement in the attempt to locate or, most likely, kill her.

"As far as I know, she's fine, but she won't be for much longer. If you'll just tell me what happened, where to find the body, I can help you, Phillip."

He grew wary. "I thought you weren't a cop. How can you help me? Did he send you? Is this a setup?"

The word setup seemed to be appearing a lot lately. I shook my head. "No setup. I'm just trying to help put you away so your girlfriend can get on with her life and not have to worry about those goons trying to kill her."

He opened his desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and took a hardy swig. Hardy as in half the bottle. Because he might be more inclined to help me if he were drunk, I didn't stop him.

"But you seem genuinely concerned about her. If you didn't send those men, who did?"

After another swig, he wiped a shaking hand over his mouth. "You need to leave," he said, his voice cracking.

"Oh, I get it. Watch your own back but no one else's. Am I in any real danger?"

He scoffed. "Let's just say you do not want to be on their naughty list."

"What happens if I get on it?"

"Not death, if that's what you're worried about. But you'll pray for it before they're through with you. This has just gotten so out of hand. So much bigger than we'd planned."

"We?" I asked, letting him take another drink before answering.

"I just wanted out."

Now we were getting somewhere. "You're being investigated for fraud. Is that what this is all about?"

"I'm being investigated?"

"Well, yeah, for that and murder, of course."

He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his face with his fingers. If anyone was in over his head, it was Phillip Brinkman. I couldn't imagine what he'd gotten himself into. Maybe the death was self-defense or even accidental. Maybe his girlfriend was lying.

"Phillip, I can help you if you'll let me."

"Mr. Brinkman?" a pretty brunette said from the doorway. "Is everything okay?"

The fear I'd felt earlier came back full force. "Yes, Lois," he said, his exterior a picture of serenity, "everything is fine."

"Can I get you anything?"

"No. No, I'll just be a minute." After she left, he glared at me. "You need to leave. Now."

"'Fraid I can't do that. Those men are planning on killing a friend of mine if I can't come up with your girlfriend's whereabouts." I hated to bring out the big guns, but he'd practically handed them to me, locked and loaded. "I need answers, Phillip, and if those men come to me again and I have nothing to give them, I'm telling them you and your girlfriend were in it together."

"What?" he asked, appalled. "Emily has nothing to do with this."

"Yeah, but they don't know that. You seem to want to stay under their radar. What'll happen if they think you two set this whole thing up?" What thing, exactly, I had no idea.

He raked his fingers through his hair.

"Just talk to me," I said, my voice placating. "I promise you, whatever you've gotten yourself into, I can help you get out of it. I'm a private investigator. I have connections."

After a very long stare into the bottle of Jack, he said, "Not here. There are eyes and ears everywhere."

The possibility that he might actually talk to me sent a sharp thrill racing over my skin.

He wrote quickly on a piece of paper and handed it over to me. It had an address on it and the words, Meet me here in half an hour. Alone.

I shook my head. "So I can suffer the same fate as that poor man you killed? I think not."

He leaned over and whispered, "It's a friend's apartment. He's out of town."

"And that's supposed to set my mind at ease?" I whispered back.

"I'll tell you everything."

"Meet you there in thirty." I rose and walked out the door. When I passed by his secretary Lois's desk, I opened up to get a full read on her. Burning curiosity was all I got. She was curious about me. She lifted her phone and pretended to text, but I was about 90 percent positive she snapped a shot of me. I'd executed that very move a hundred times, only just now realizing how fake it looked. No one texted like that. I'd have to get a new technique.

I climbed into Garrett's truck. "Did you get all that?" I asked him.

"I did. Where we meeting him?"

"At an address on Candelaria near Lomas."

He started his truck. "What did you get off him?"

"The more important question is what didn't I get off him." When he raised his brows in question, I said, "Guilt."

17.

Oh, my. What a lovely shade of bitch you're wearing today.

- T-SHIRT We waited in front of the apartment for Phillip to show. He was over fifteen minutes late, and I was beginning to worry we'd been stood up when he pulled around to the side of the building. The two of us got out and walked over to meet him. But when he spotted Garrett, he started to rethink.

He was about to get back in his car when I got to him. "This is a colleague," I said to him, holding up my hands in surrender. "He's also a PI and the best tracker I've ever met. You can tell him anything you'd tell me."

I felt a wave of appreciation drift off Garrett. It was so much nicer than the annoyance or frustration I normally felt come off him.

"This was a mistake," Phillip said, edging back into his car.

"I'm sorry to do this, Phillip, but I will tell those men anything they want to hear if you don't let me in on this." I decided to hit him with my big question and gauge his reaction. "Did you kill that man?"

He raised his chin. "Yes, I did."

I gasped and glared at him. "You're lying. You never murdered anyone."

He jammed an index finger over his mouth to shush me. "Do you want the whole neighborhood to hear you? You're going to get us all killed."

What the hell was going on?

He took hold of my arm and led me to a lower-level apartment.

After pouring himself a stiff one, he offered a glass to Garrett. Thankfully, Swopes shook his head. This was no time to be getting rowdy with the boys.

When he sat down, I said, "Okay, Brinkman, spill. Why is your girlfriend saying she saw you kill someone?"