Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(30)

“What happens then?”

“Depends on how the media reacts. The magazine will act to protect their reputation. Peter will have to suspend me. Maybe fire me.”

“You’re not worried about it?”

“I’ll take a hit, but in the long run it will probably be good for my career. The Merrick interview got my name out there. Spin it right, and I might even come out the hero. Daughter sticks it to man who ruined her parents. Has a nice populist ring to it, don’t you think?”

“So why are you talking to me?”

She shrugged. “Never been blackmailed before. Got to admit, you have me curious. Truth, I’ve always had a naughty blackmail fantasy, and you’re kind of cute in a Chris Pratt sort of way. Buff Chris Pratt, not Parks and Rec Chris Pratt. Not really my type, but I can work with it. If you ever get around to telling me what you want, I mean.”

It was all bull, but she was having a good time pushing his buttons, using her natural brashness to unsettle him. Gibson played along, dropping his head as though embarrassed, letting her feel in control of the situation.

“Are you blushing?” she asked. “No blushing. You are totally going to ruin this for me if you blush. You cannot be a blackmailer and be this easy to mess with.”

“Sorry.”

She stabbed at her drink in mock disappointment.

“Well, the moment, as they say, is over, so you may as well ask whatever it is you came to ask.”

“Invest your pennies,” he said.

“What of it?”

“At the end of the interview, you asked what Merrick would do when he got out. He said not to worry about him, that he knew how to invest his pennies.”

“And?”

“Well, the expression is ‘save your pennies.’”

“I’m familiar with the expression.”

“So which was it? Invest or save?”

She sat back and stared at him. “Why?”

“Just a theory I’m working on.”

She sat forward. “What theory?”

“It’s not important.”

“Obviously,” she said and waited.

He waited back. There was no chance that he’d confide in Lydia Malkin. She was too smart and too ambitious to be trusted.

“You’re really not going to tell me?” She sounded hurt; she wasn’t.

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“What about after? I tell you what you want to know now, and you give me the whole story after you do whatever it is you’re going to do?”

“Can’t do that either.”

“You suck at negotiating.”

“I can hurt Merrick.”

She smiled, showing all of her teeth and none of her heart. “See? Was that so hard?”

He shrugged. “I suck at negotiating.”

“He said, ‘Invest my pennies.’ And before you ask, yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay, so last question. In the interview, you repeated what he said, but how did he say it? Like what was his demeanor? His tone of voice? Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. His demeanor? Smug. So unbelievably smug. He had this look on his face like he was dying to say something. Like maybe he’d thought of something funny but was worried he might offend me . . . and then he said it.”

“Got it,” he said as levelly as he could muster.

Inside, he was the night sky on the Fourth of July, but it wouldn’t do to let her see. There was a way. One way or another, Merrick had been managing his money from prison. Which meant he’d unlocked the back door.

“I hope it helps,” she said. “So . . . I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Those two guys by the bar that keep looking over here. Friends of yours, or do I look better in these jeans than I thought?”

Gibson looked over his shoulder. Birk and Swonger were leaning against the bar like they’d been drinking here for years. They looked at him and nodded. Gibson nodded back.

Christ, he thought, they’d done it to him again. When this was all over, he really needed to learn how surveillance worked.





CHAPTER TWELVE


Swonger spun a chair around and sat, resting his elbows on the backrest. He smirked back and forth between Gibson and Lydia as if this were middle school and he’d just caught them holding hands. Birk circled around and took the last chair at the table.

“Mind if we join you?” Birk asked.

“Lydia, you should go,” Gibson said.

“Lydia should stay,” said Swonger. “That cool with you?” He laid an oil-stained hand on her wrist.

If Swonger meant to intimidate her, he was going to need a new plan.

“Take your hand off me,” she said as if asking for directions to the bathroom. She made no attempt to shake off his hand.

“What are you gonna do if I don’t?”

“I’m thinking I’ll scream.”

“Maybe I like that.” Swonger’s grip tightened.

“Maybe you do, but my cousin? Not so much.”

“Who?”

“Big fella behind the bar.”

Swonger’s eyes flickered, and he glanced back toward the bar. The bartender stared back.