Page 13 of Shield
“Okay, so you have childcare this time, but you know, if there’s some way we can help, or you have anything else you want to talk about, you know where I am, right?” Charles tapped the phone he was holding.
“Sure, Cap.”
He stood and stretched, wincing as he raised his left arm. “Jeez, do you ever think you’re getting too old for this game?” he asked.
I smirked. “Never.”
By the time I was slipping on shoes and doing one last check on my hair, it was nearly time to meet the cop. And that was when I started second guessing his suggestion to meet at a steakhouse, of all things. I pulled up maps, found the place he’d suggested, tucked away on the side road, and I was there with ten minutes to spare, glancing at the open seating area and telling the server that there was a booking.
The table was right on the edge of the seating area, and I sat facing the restaurant, sipping water, checking the menu, and wondering if this was a brunch thing, a steak thing, or maybe a ‘we’re-not-eating-anything’ coffee.
He arrived ten minutes later, a yellow Honda spitting him out onto the sidewalk. The car parked, and he leaned in, giving attitude to whoever was driving, who then drove off. Jackson weaved through tables to get to me, giving a wave to the server, who smiled at him. Did she know him? Was he a regular here? I’d seen him at practices before, so I guessed he knew the area, but the thought that we were meeting at a regular spot for him made me feel uneasy.
Like this wasn’t me telling him what I thought I’d seen.
“Mr. Cowan,” he said as he took the seat facing the street, shuffling his chair so he was more on the corner and could see the restaurant as well. He seemed just as tired as he’d been yesterday, if not worse, and his day-old stubble had become two-day stubble, and he’d bitten his lower lip somehow, then worried at it, so it looked sore. I assumed that, between yesterday and now, he’d showered, given his hair lay in fluffy layers and he smelled of cedar and heat.
I’m smelling what now?
“Call me Oliver, or Oli, or hell, Cowboy, if you want, but please, drop the Mr. Cowan,” I deadpanned.
The server came over and, without even checking the menu, Jackson spoke up. “The Blue Burger, no onions. Leave the salad, please, but extra fries, and water,” he said with a smile that the server returned. The server was smiling way too hard, and I felt a pinch of…
Of what? Jealousy? Fuck’s sake, Oliver.
At least Jackson was ordering food, and my rumbling belly told me I needed food too.
“Chicken salad, hold the dressing, side plain pasta, and I’ll stick with the water, as well,” I ordered.
She left with another smile and then, it was only me and Jackson.
“Do you always meet witnesses in restaurants?” I asked and leaned on my elbows, daring him to lie to me.
“Yes,” he muttered gruffly, then cleared his throat. “No, not really. But I needed to eat, and this is close to where you were. I have an hour.”
“Well, it’s probably nothing, and this meeting might be a waste…”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” The server returned with the water and sashayed away, but I noticed he didn’t watch her leave.
“I think the guy with the gun took a photo from the board behind Joe.” That came out in a rush, and I sat back. Now, he was going to laugh me out of the restaurant.
“Go on,” he encouraged, settling into the chair and leaning back as if he had all the time in the world.
The detail from the clinic that had nudged its way forward in my mind in the small hours of this morning after I’d gotten off the phone with Lazlo—a detail that had seemed insignificant at the time—had suddenly become all I could think about.
Was the photo important? Who the fuck knew, but the man with the gun… before he shouted about codes in that do-it-or-die threat, had hesitated and glanced at something in his hand. It could have been simply because someone had interrupted what he’d been doing, or it could have been something else. It was a photo of Joe with a group of staff from the clinic all smiling on some happier day, one that normally was on the bulletin board behind Joe’s desk, and he was holding it.
I realized then—there was something else in the gunman’s eyes. A flicker of something that went beyond the desperation of the moment, or the evil threat.
“It was a photo that Joe kept up on his board.” I moved my fingers to approximate the size and glanced up to see him staring at my hands. “A picture of Joe and some staff on a hike, the first one they did to raise money way back. At least, that is what he said it was a picture of. I mean, I didn’t recognize half the people in the photo.” I shrugged. “But did the guy with the gun know Joe? Or someone in the photo?”
Jackson tugged out his phone, and for a moment, I thought I'd lost him. He scrolled, then placed the phone on the table, turning it to face me. The photo was a crime scene photo, not official, a little blurry, as if he’d taken it on his phone—was he allowed that on his phone? Hell, was I even supposed to see these?
I was at the damn scene, idiot; I’ve already seen it.
“That’s the board, and the photo was where?” he asked and leaned over the phone, so our heads were almost touching. That scent of his, the stubble, the sore lip, his green eyes so focused, and I swallowed hard.Head in the game, Cowboy.
I peered closer, then gestured to a space on the side. “If I remember right, that was where it was. Do you think the armed guy taking it is significant?”
