Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(51)

“Another beer?” the waitress yelled from behind him, and Rick gave her the thumbs-up sign. Blinking his eyes, he realized that the table of bikini-clad girls was gone, and there was no sign of Burns.

Rick turned all the way around in his chair, his eyes frantically scanning the crowd. Where the hell was Burns?

He stood and did a sweep of the bar with his eyes, still not seeing him, and then began to walk around the place, which was packed, his eyes darting to every corner, nook, and cranny. Nothing.

Rick lumbered back to his seat in a daze. “Have you seen the guy that came in with me? Hawaiian shirt, shorts, stubble?” he asked the waitress, who was setting a Corona down at his place at the table.

“The guy talking with the table of girls?” she asked, pointing to the now-empty table.

“Yes,” Rick said, nodding. “Did you see—?”

“I’m pretty sure he left.”

Rick just stood there, unbelieving, as the waitress walked away from him. He slunk down in his seat. Burns was gone. He’d driven the bastard to Destin, Florida, and now he was gone. And Rick had no idea where. Had he left with one of the girls at the adjacent table? Or had he just split the minute he saw Rick head to the bathroom?

Damnit. Rick held the cold longneck to his forehead and closed his eyes. The band started in on “Whiskey River,” by Willie Nelson, and Rick couldn’t think of a more appropriate song. He drained half the beer in one gulp and slammed the drink on the table.

All for nothing, he thought. The whole trip. He’d been played a fool. He should’ve known Burns would split the minute Rick let him out of his sight.

Rick drained the beer with two more sips and gave the signal to the waitress as she passed by to bring him another. For an instant he thought of Bocephus Haynes, alone in his cold jail cell, and guilt washed over him. Bo had put so much faith in the Professor and Rick. And the Professor had been beaten up and . . .

. . . I’m getting drunk in an oyster bar on the Gulf Coast.

Rick took the beer out of the waitress’s hand before she could set it down and took a quick sip. Too quick, in fact, as most of the drink went straight up his nose. He set the bottle down and it bubbled over, making a mess.

“That won’t do you any good,” a voice said from behind him, and Rick spun around to see a smiling woman. She was short, maybe five foot two, if that, and was wearing a black tank top and khaki low-cut shorts. Her skin was tanned golden brown, and her eyes, also brown, gave him a curious glance. “The lawyer, right?” she asked, and Rick nodded as she took the seat across from him.

“Are you—?”

“Darla Ford,” she interrupted, extending her small hand.

Rick blinked at her in disbelief. Then as relief flooded his veins, he wiped his right hand on his pants and reached across the table.

“Rick Drake.” When his hand clasped Darla’s, she held on to it for a second.

“Well, Mr. Drake, if you don’t mind me saying so . . . you look like you could use a friend.”





34


Three hundred miles away, in his cell on the A Block of the St. Clair Correctional Facility, Jack Willistone lay on his cot, staring at the concrete ceiling above him. It had been lights-out for at least three hours, but Jack couldn’t sleep.

He’d answered the questions about Martha Booher as well as he could. “An old friend. Met her in Nashville many years ago. She had been a barmaid at Tootsies, the famous bar in Nashville on Broadway Street.” They’d “spent some time together” on Jack’s trips to the Music City, but he hadn’t seen her in years. She’d heard the news and just wanted to say hello and that she was pulling for him. It was . . . “sweet,” Jack had said.

And all of it was true. He’d just left out one minor detail.

Our mutual friend sends his regards. He says he’s looking forward to seeing you when you get out of jail.

It had been the last thing Martha said. Completely innocent, in case their conversation was being recorded. But the meaning came in loud and clear, and it was just as McMurtrie had predicted.

Bone will come for me, Jack knew. He’ll come for me, and if I can’t pay . . .

Jack closed his eyes, unwilling to allow himself to panic. A lot had happened since Martha’s visit. He had gotten a break.

Someone had come to see him, and he had referred that person to Bone. Bone wasn’t stupid. He would know the source of his newfound income. The question, though, was would it be enough?

Jack propped himself on his elbow on the cot and gazed through the steel bars. McMurtrie had put him here. In his whole life, a journey spent hustling some of the smartest and shrewdest businessmen in the country, McMurtrie was the only son of a bitch that ever got the best of him.

He’ll figure it out, Jack knew, chuckling to himself. And when he does, Bone will either be dead or in prison for life. Either way he couldn’t get at Jack.

Jack knew he could answer the riddle for them. But if he did that, he was committed. If they failed, Bone would most certainly come for him. And the referral wouldn’t make a damn. Not paying was one thing. Outright betrayal was another. I’d be a dead man walking, Jack knew.

So he’d stay on the fence and hope that McMurtrie would figure it out. Martha Booher was certainly part of it. Booher might lead them right to Bone . . .

. . . if they ever find her.