Minutes to Kill (Scarlet Falls #2)(49)

She shot him a dirty look. “You suck.”

He laughed at the childish retort. He liked this less-formal, more-familiar Hannah. “If you’re tired, let’s pick up food, and I’ll cook something.”

“Can you manage steak?”

That wasn’t what he’d expected her to choose. “Yes, but most women ask for salad.”

“Salad isn’t a meal.” Hannah’s face scrunched. “I could really go for a steak, rare, and potatoes any way you can make them. You’ll have to cook at Grant’s house, though. The dog has been alone all day.”

“I can do that.”

They stopped at a grocery store a few miles outside town.

“Coffee,” Hannah whimpered, making a beeline for the beverage counter.

Brody selected two hefty sirloins and a bag of potatoes. Hannah appeared at his elbow, bliss on her face as she took a long sip. She licked her lips. Distracting.

“How about a vegetable?” he asked.

Hannah gave him a sour-lemon face. “Not for me.”

He grabbed a bag of string beans. “They won’t kill you.”

“I have no proof of that.”

He paid for the groceries, and they went back to the car. Brody’s step was lighter at the prospect of an evening with a smart woman, a quiet dinner, and some entertaining conversation. A man couldn’t ask for much more.

His phone buzzed halfway home. Unfortunately, he recognized the number. The Pub. Chet. So much for balancing on the edge of the wagon.

Brody glanced over at Hannah. “I’m sorry. I have to answer this.”

“Work?”

“Not entirely.” It felt very personal, but there was no protecting anyone’s privacy tonight. If Brody didn’t answer the call, the Pub’s bartender would have to call police dispatch. Pushing a button on his steering wheel, he answered the call.

“Detective McNamara?”

“Yeah.”

“This is Todd down at The Pub. We have a situation,” Todd said.

“What is it?” Brody’s appetite dissipated. If Todd was calling Brody directly, Chet was involved.

“Chet. He’s getting into it with another customer. They’re both acting like assholes. So far it’s just posturing and insults, but Chet’s in a foul mood tonight, and I’m too damned old to break up a fight.”

“I’m on my way.”

The sound of indecipherable shouting came over the line.

“If shit gets physical, I’m calling the police,” Todd warned.

“Be there in five.” Brody made a U-turn and headed into town. He pressed the pedal to the floor. The SUV shot forward. The Pub was a quiet neighborhood bar. Most of the clientele would be regulars stopping for a few beers after work or popping in to catch the hockey game.

Hannah grabbed for the armrest. “Is something wrong?”

“Sorry.” Brody straightened the wheel. “Yes. Do you mind if we make a stop? I should have asked you before I agreed.”

“It’s fine. I’m not in a rush to get anywhere.”

“But you’re exhausted, and I promised to feed you.”

“I just slept for three hours and finished a large coffee. I feel better than I have all day. Can you tell me what happened?”

“It’s complicated.” Brody stopped at a red light. “I’ll tell you the long story later. For now, my friend Chet is in trouble. He’s an alcoholic and waiting on some bad news. He’s been in AA and mostly sober for a couple of years, but this week was more than he could take. According to The Pub’s bartender, Chet is looking for trouble and so are the guys he found.”

The Pub sat on the outskirts of Scarlet Falls. The bar had a long history. Like every other old building in New England, The Pub professed that George Washington had slept, eaten pot roast, or changed his socks under its roof. After all, no one could prove he hadn’t. Brody parked in the gravel lot and went inside. Hannah followed him. The halls were lined with historical photos and pictures of the owner with local celebrities. A row of beer mugs etched with the names of regulars hung over the bar.

Behind the polished wooden bar, Todd rubbed a beer glass with a dish towel. His ruddy Scottish complexion had gone red, and anger lent vigor to his strokes. He inclined his head toward a doorway. In the next room, Chet paced back and forth in front of the pool table, his movements too quick, jerky, and uneven.

Holding a tumbler of Johnnie Walker, he was gesturing at a big guy dressed like a biker in torn jeans, boots, and a dirty bandana over an equally dirty gray ponytail. Two more biker types occupied the table with Mr. Big.

“What’s the fight about?” Brody asked. Hannah stepped up next to him. She pressed her arms against his.

Todd shelved the glass and flipped the towel over his broad shoulder. “The big dude recognized him and started in on him with the usual cop-themed insults. And Brody . . .” Todd waved him closer.

When Brody leaned over the bar, Todd said in a low voice, “Chet was in here the other day. He was on duty. He only had a couple of drinks, but I thought you should know.”

“Thanks.” Brody turned to Hannah. “Please go back to the car.”

She eased backward toward the door.

Brody crossed the scarred pine floor and assessed the scene in the billiard room, a long, narrow, and dark space. Three pool tables were strung out end-to-end. Brody scanned the room. Shadows darkened the corners, but the room appeared to be empty except for Chet and the three bikers.