Suddenly One Summer (FBI/US Attorney #6)(43)
“And you’re not going to get far in those heels, so I hope you know how to throw a decent punch.” He grinned when he caught her look. “I’m kidding. Look, think about what we do know about Peter Sutter. He’s good-looking, and he’s the kind of guy who ditches a woman while she’s sleeping after picking her up at a bar. Sounds like a player to me—odds are, he doesn’t even have a girlfriend.” Seeing a parking spot on the street about a half block away from their destination, he pulled to the side and reversed in.
He turned off the car and angled in the seat to face her. “Don’t be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous. Just . . . out of my element.”
He smiled, having a feeling that was a rare occurrence for her. “You’ll do great, Victoria.”
She tilted her head to the side, as if considering this. “Probably, yes.” Then she gave him a little smile to say she was joking. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
They both got out of the car, and he walked over to feed the parking meter. She leaned her hip against the hood, watching as he put the receipt on the dashboard.
“I’ll walk in ahead of you and find a spot away from the bar,” he told her. “Wait for my text, then you go in. If the bartender does know Peter Sutter, you’ll have to improvise a bit. Don’t seem too eager, but try to find out where he lives. Anything that we can cross-reference against our list. Say something like, ‘I think he mentioned that he lives close to here,’ that kind of thing.”
Victoria blew out a breath of air. “Okay. I just thought of another worst-case scenario.”
He hid a smile, thinking she was kind of cute when out of her element. “Technically, I think there can only be one worst-case scenario.”
“What if I walk in and ask about Peter Sutter, and the bartender points to some guy and says, ‘Sure, that’s Pete, right over there!’”
Hell, they should be so lucky. “Not exactly sure what’ll happen then. But it’ll probably include me saying a few four-letter words to the dickhead.”
That settled, Ford strode off in the direction of the bar.
* * *
LOCATED IN THE heart of the River North neighborhood, Public House, a so-called gastropub according to the online research Ford had done, was bigger and trendier than most sports bars he’d frequented. Sure, there was the requisite wood paneling and TVs on the walls, but the crowd seemed more “urban professional hoping to hook-up” than actual sports fan.
He told the hostess he was meeting someone and asked for a quiet booth away from the bar. Once seated, he surveyed the scene. There were two bartenders working that evening, a man and a woman, and only a couple of open seats at the bar.
A waitress stopped by his table to take his drink order. Bypassing the self-serve beer taps built right into the booth, he ordered a bottle of Robert the Bruce.
All set, he texted Victoria after the waitress left. Take the open seat on the left side of the bar. From there, he would have the quickest access in case he needed to step in, in the highly unlikely event that anything went awry once she began asking questions about Peter Sutter.
Moments later, she walked in.
Ford pretended to be distracted by his phone, but out of the corner of his eye he watched as she took a seat at the bar and crossed one high-heeled leg over the other.
The female bartender approached Victoria and took her order. After she walked away, Victoria checked out the other patrons seated at the bar, pretending as though she was looking for someone. After her drink arrived—something in a cocktail glass—she began chatting up the bartender. Ford couldn’t hear what was being said, but from Victoria’s smile, and her gestures, and the way the female bartender chuckled and nodded along, the conversation appeared to be going well.
He guessed the moment Victoria mentioned Peter Sutter’s name, judging from the way the bartender furrowed her brow as if thinking and then shook her head. Then the female bartender gestured for the male bartender to come over, and there was more gesturing and explaining the situation, and more smiles from Victoria, and then the male bartender shook his head.
The waitress, who’d been standing at the bar to pick up an order, joined the conversation, and although she, too, shook her head no at what Ford presumed to be the Peter Sutter question, she launched into some story that had all of them laughing. Then she headed off in the opposite direction, carrying a tray of drinks, and the bartenders got back to work.
Victoria pulled out her phone, as if checking her messages. A moment later, Ford’s phone chimed with a new text.
No luck.
He wasn’t surprised—it had been a long shot, but a lead worth checking out nevertheless. He set his phone on the table and looked up, just in time to see the male bartender moving closer to Victoria. The guy gestured to her phone, making a big show of looking indignant, and Ford had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. He could only imagine the lame line the guy was giving her. Where is this Peter Sutter, anyway? What kind of jerk leaves a beautiful woman like you waiting?
When Victoria smiled in return, Ford decided to head over. Time for this twentysomething bartender with the spiky blond hair to go . . . make a gin and tonic or something.
He tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Are you Victoria?”
She turned around and gave him a curious look—they hadn’t discussed this part of the plan. “I am.”