Chasing Shadows (First Wives #3)(69)

“In this city, it’s right up there with a needle in a haystack.”

Avery sat up and put on her jacket. “I still have to try.”

“I get that.”

As Avery paid the bill and pocketed her aftercare instructions for the tattoo, Zelda offered to ask around about Spider. Avery left her cell number before walking away.

Armed with a wad of ten-dollar bills, enough to buy anyone who would talk to her a beer, she set out for a sober bar crawl.



There was no point in trying to hide he was a cop, so Armstrong waltzed up to the tatted up clerk and dropped his badge on the counter. “How you doing today?” he asked the kid.

He glanced at the badge, smiled. “Fine. What can I do for you, Officer?”

“Detective.”

“Detective,” the clerk mimicked.

“I’m looking for someone who might have had a tattoo done here.”

The clerk grinned. Armstrong had seen that smile before. It said he wasn’t going to find anything. “Lots of people get tattoos here. It’s what we do.”

He removed the picture of Avery’s spider and turned it toward the clerk.

While the clerk glanced at the image, Armstrong studied the kid.

Recognition lit in his eyes. His breathing shifted pace, and a tiny twitch behind his left eye screamed BINGO.

“Van specializes in everything that crawls.”

“Have you seen the guy who has this tattoo?”

“No.” The clerk seemed amused with his denial.

“What’s so funny?”

“No wonder our tax dollars are so high.”

Armstrong rested both hands on the counter. The movement always opened his jacket, and anyone looking would see his concealed weapon. Outside of his tiny badge, it was often the only thing that reminded people he was a cop. “Mind explaining?”

“Sure. Your partner, she was already in here last week.”

“My partner?” She?

“Yeah. Showed me the exact picture and gave some bullshit story about wanting to get one for her boyfriend but didn’t want a similar tat out there. Had we done this one before? I’ll tell you the same thing I told her. Bugs, it’s what we do. Can’t say Van did that or didn’t. We don’t take pictures of all the art we do.”

Avery!

“This partner of mine . . . blonde, about yea tall?” He waved his hand in the air at about his shoulder height.

“Yeah.”

Armstrong pulled a picture of the suspect. “This guy? You see him?”

The clerk smiled. “Half a face. Could be anyone. He doesn’t look familiar.”

He shoved the papers back in his pocket after tossing a card on the desk. “You see this guy, call me.”

The clerk offered a short salute as Armstrong walked out.



Nothing good happens after midnight. Her mother’s voice rang in her head. On this, she had to agree with the woman.

Someone handed Avery a bag of ice. She placed it on the side of her face where her cheek had caught someone’s fist.

“What’s your name?” The police officer wrote in his tiny notepad while several of his brothers did the same with the half a dozen people gathered outside the club.

Avery glanced to her right and then the left. Yup. She was the only woman outside of the cocktail waitresses being questioned.

“How did this start?”

Avery pointed through the crowd. “That guy grabbed my ass.”

The officer stopped writing and looked at her outfit. “And you didn’t want that.” It wasn’t a question.

“No.”

“What did you do?”

“I removed his hand from my ass. Then I told him it wasn’t polite to touch unless invited.”

“How did you remove his hand from your ass?”

“Assertively.”

The officer questioning her smirked.

“And then what happened?”

“One of his friends, the guy in the jean jacket”—she pointed him out—“jumped in front of us and shoved me.”

“Uh-huh . . . and then?”

“Not really sure. I heard someone tell those two to pick a fight with a man instead of a woman. The next thing I know, chairs were skidding across the floor and people were throwing punches.”

“Right.” The officer was bored. “And did you throw punches?”

The side of her face started to sting. “I’m more of an elbow and knee girl when someone hits me first.”

Yep, the cop was smiling. “Well . . .” He glanced at her ID, which he had in his hand. “Avery Grant. Stay right here.”

Since he left with her ID, she didn’t really have a choice.

The bouncer, pure New Yorker, walked over. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What was that back in there?” he asked. “Some kind of martial arts?”

“Krav maga.”

He smiled, lifted his fist for a bump.

Avery obliged.

How things had changed. She used to visit clubs and gain the admiration of the bouncers, tip them heavily, and avoid comments when they stared. Now she earned it by defending herself.

The cop returned, looked at her ID again before handing it back. “Is that your current address?”