City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(41)

Anders grimaces in embarrassment. “Christ, Eric.”

Dalton flips the cap off his beer. “It’s true. They’ve got nothing going on upstairs. Which doesn’t mean they’re stupid. Just that they don’t bother thinking because it interferes with the drinking and the partying and the screwing.”

Anders turns to Dalton. “Casey and I are going out for drinks with Diana and her friends tonight.”

Dalton grunts as if to say, “Fine.” I get the feeling I’m being chaperoned, but I know Anders is only trying to smooth things over. I agree, and he says he’ll meet us later—he needs to cover the evening shift at the station.

I freshen up at my house. Then I head to Diana’s place. It’s the upper apartment of a big house. After a day on horseback, climbing the outside steps is tougher than it should be. Hell, walking is tougher than it should be. I head along the balcony to the second apartment and knock, and I don’t think I’m very loud, but the next door opens and it’s Jen, the chick from the bar fight. She’s stark naked. Behind her, an unseen guy whines, “Shut the damned door. It’s freezing.”

She ignores him and says, “What the hell do you want?” to me.

“Sorry,” I say. “I was looking for Diana. Have you seen—?”

“No. Now get the f*ck off my balcony.”

I knock on Diana’s door again. Jen lunges and grabs my arm. Two seconds later she’s flying through her door, hitting the floor hard enough to make the balcony quiver, and her guest is standing there, as naked as she is, his gaze sliding up and down me.

“Well, hello, neighbour.”

“That bitch isn’t—” Jen begins.

“You want to party?” the guy says. “Jen says you like to party.”

“No, thanks, but I’m—”

“Got everything we need. Dope, booze …” He grins at me. “And credits. I pay well. Just ask Jen. You come party with us, and I’ll show you a good time. A profitable good time.”

“I’m the new detective.”

His grin grows. “Offer stands, babe. A party with all the fixings and you walk out a hundred credits richer.”

“A hundred?” Jen squawks. “You’re giving me twenty.”

“ ’Cause you’re worth twenty. She’s worth a hundred. I’ll make yours thirty, though, if you play nice. Have some fun with your new neighbour.”

“You son of a—” Jen howls, and launches herself at him. I pull the door shut and walk away.


I’m passing the Roc when a voice calls, “Hey, girl,” and I turn to see Isabel relighting a lantern outside her bar.

“What are you doing out and about at this hour?” she asks.

“It’s not even ten.”

“Let me rephrase: what are you doing out and about alone at this hour?”

“I’m fine.” I pull back my jacket so she can see my gun.

“Mmm, that’s not going to help, sugar. No one’s going to drag you into an alley for your wallet. Or for anything else. They’re just going to pester you, and I’d strongly suggest you don’t shoot them for that, as annoying as they might be.”

“I’m fine. No one’s bothered—”

“No one stopped you on your way here?”

A couple of guys had tried, but I say, “Not really.” Then, “Have you seen Diana? I’m supposed to have drinks with her tonight.”

“I wouldn’t count on her remembering. That girl has an active social life.” She steps closer and lowers her voice. “You might want to have a talk with her. I’m all for partying—clean partying. Not much else to do up here. But sometimes the freedom is a little too much. Your friend likes the booze and she likes the boys. That isn’t a safe combination.”

I’m about to say no, Isabel is misunderstanding the situation, but I know protesting won’t help, so I just nod. “I’ll talk to her. Thanks for the heads-up.”

I start to say goodnight, but she says, “You’re not walking home alone, Miss Casey. Yes, you don’t appreciate being treated like a girl in hoop skirts, and believe me, I’d be the last person to say a lady can’t take care of herself. But slow down. Let people get used to you. Until then, save yourself the hassle.” She leans into the Roc and shouts, “Mick!” and the bartender appears. She puts one hand on his burly bicep and says, “You’re going to walk Ms. Butler home.”

“It’s Casey, please,” I say. “And I don’t need—”

“You will escort Casey home. If she argues, walk two paces behind her. Unless she tries to shoot you.” She looks at me. “Please don’t shoot him.”

I smile. “I won’t.”

“And don’t worry about him, either. He’s perfectly safe. I keep him plenty occupied.” She winks at me and then smacks Mick’s ass and sends us on our way.

Mick isn’t a conversationalist. We don’t exchange a word until we reach my porch, and I say, “Thanks,” and he says, “Anytime,” then adds, “About your friend, Diana. She’s …” He shifts, looking uncomfortable. “She’s getting into some trouble.”

“So I heard. I’ll talk to her.”