Fair Warning (Jack McEvoy #3)(41)

I knew the moment I decided to visit her the day before that I was buying myself another round of hope and hurt. But some people are fated this way, fated to play the same music over and over like a scratched record.

The moment was ruined when the bartender saw me standing by the door and called out her version of my name.

“Jacques, what are you doing?” she said. “Come in, come in.”

Elle, whose last name I did not know, spoke with a French accent. She knew me as a regular, though she put a French twist on my name. Still, it was close enough that it caused Rachel to look up and see me. And my moment of reverie and hope ended.

I walked to the bar and sat next to Rachel.

“Hey, been here long?” I asked.

“No, just ahead of you,” Rachel said.

Elle came down the bar to take my order.

“The usual, Jacques?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Elle went back down the bar to where the bottle of Ketel One was and started preparing my drink.

“Ze use-you-well, Jacques?” Rachel whispered mockingly. “You know that accent is fake, right?”

“She’s an actress,” I said. “The place is French.”

“Only in L.A.”

“Or maybe Paris. So, what brings you over the hill to the Valley?”

“Trying to hook up a new client and today we had the dog-and-pony show.”

“Background searching?”

“Our meat and potatoes.”

“So you go in there, flash the former-FBI credentials, and tell them what you can do and they give you their business?”

“That’s a little simplistic but, yeah, that’s how it works.”

Elle brought my martini over and put it down on a cocktail napkin.

“Voilà,” she said.

“Merci,” I said.

Elle moved back down the bar, smart enough to give us space.

“And this is your hang?” Rachel said. “The bartender with the phony French accent?”

“I only live a couple blocks away,” I said. “I can walk home if I get into trouble.”

“Or you get lucky. Gotta get them home before they change their minds, right?”

“That’s a low blow, and I wish I hadn’t even told you that yesterday. That is the one and only time that ever happened to me here.”

“I’m sure.”

“It’s true, but it’s beginning to sound like you’re jealous.”

“That’ll be the day.”

We broke off the conversation there for a few moments and I had the feeling we were both reviewing memories of our checkered history. It always seemed to be me who blew it. Once during the Poet investigation when my own insecurities caused me to doubt her in a relationship-stunting way, and the last time when I put my work ahead of our relationship and put her into an intolerable position.

Now we were left to meet at a bar and trade coy remarks. What could have been was killing me.

“I have to say I am jealous about one thing,” Rachel said.

“That I live in the Valley now?” I said.

I still couldn’t get away from the coy remark. Jesus.

“No, that you’re on a case,” she said. “A real case.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “You have your own business.”

“Which is ninety percent sitting at a computer and doing background searches. I haven’t worked a real … I’m not using my skills, Jack. And if you don’t use them you lose them. You coming in yesterday just reminded me of what I don’t do anymore.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s all on me. Your badge, everything. I fucked everything up for a story. I was so blind and I’m so sorry.”

“Jack, I didn’t come because I need your apology. The past is past.”

“Then what, Rachel?”

“I don’t know. I just …”

She didn’t finish. But I knew this wasn’t going to be a quick drink and goodbye. I held two fingers up to Elle at the other end of the bar: two more.

“Did you do anything with what we talked about yesterday?” Rachel asked.

“I did,” I said. “I got some really good stuff and would have continued today but then I ended up staying all night in jail.”

“What? Why?”

“Because the LAPD guy on the case is scared. Scared I’m ahead of him on this, so he grabbed me on a trumped-up obstruction thing last night and I spent all night in Metro and then half the day in court and riding jail buses back and forth.”

I finished my martini just as Elle delivered a new one.

“Je vous en prie,” she said.

“Merci,” I said.

“Gracias,” Rachel said.

Elle went away.

“Hey, we forgot,” I said.

I held my fresh drink up.

“To the single-bullet theory?” I asked.

Maybe that was going too far, but Rachel did not balk. She held up her glass and nodded. It was a reference to something she had told me years before: that she believed everybody had somebody out there in the world who could pierce their heart like a bullet. Not everybody had the good fortune of meeting that person, and not everybody could hold on to that person if they did meet.