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“That pervert was fiddling with his zipper when I arrived on scene. I didn’t see anyone, though—I don’t think the bartender did either.”
But there had been tension between them. Whether Jenny had seen something incriminating or not, Waylon seemed to believe she had.
But Waylon wouldn’t protect Jenny. He also wouldn’t protect whoever was blowing him in his office if they’d hurt Mercer, not when the penalty was accessory to murder. So what exactly was Waylon hiding? Ronan could guess. But he definitely wanted to be wrong.
“Do you think Jennifer Crandall was fucking?—”
“No.” His hackles rose at the thought of Waylon’s greasy hands on her perfect body. “There wasn’t time for that.”
Paddy’s eyes widened. “Because you somehow intuited how long she’d been back there when you ran in from the alley?”
Ronan leaned in and whispered, “You know I was in the club. I don’t know why she said what she did?—”
“Because she likes you. Or wants to seduce you so you’ll help her.” The look in his eyes said, is it working? It looks like it’s working.
But Ronan went on, “Either way, she’d barely gone through that swinging door when I heard her scream. She didn’t have time to mess around in Waylon’s office. I think Mercer was back there before she entered the room.”
“Like he was waiting for her?” Paddy’s eyes narrowed. “Sounds threatening.”
“I’m not sure he went there to threaten her. He kissed her, remember? Maybe he had a crush, figured he’d take a chance. But no matter why he entered the building, someone took that opportunity to stab him while his back was turned.” Ronan snapped the file closed. “We need to learn more about Jason Mercer.”
He was setting the victim up as the villain. Ronan believed he was. A gut feeling, but he didn’t think he was wrong—his gut was almost never wrong. And his conversation with Charles had sparked something in his head.
If I wanted him dead, he’d be dead.
If someone had wanted to kill Jenny, they would have—Waylon, too. That would’ve been less risky than leaving them alive to scream for help. And the motive wasn’t robbery—nothing had been taken.
The suspect had waited for Jenny to step away, stabbed Mercer between the ribs before he could fight back, then stuck him a few extra times for good measure—or perhaps to make sure he was dead. All of it had taken less than a minute. Fast, clean, efficient.
Jason Mercer had been assassinated.
And they had no idea why.
Chapter 10
Juliette
The short walk between her motel and the strip club was clean this time of morning—after the street sweepers had come through, but before the evening crowds emerged to skulk around the massage parlors that gave more than massages. Three different sex clubs in total, and Waylon had been the only one willing to hire her.
A mangy gray cat meowed at her as if in commiseration, then took off up the alley. The rest of the road was silent save for the warm October breeze, her footsteps on the cobblestones.
Juliette crossed her arms, wrapping her sweater tighter around her chest. There was a humid stickiness in the air, but she’d been cold since she’d awoken, her blood too hot—feverish. It had been twelve hours since a man had taken his last breaths in that club, but it felt like weeks. Every second had been filled with trepidation.
Except for those blissful moments she’d spent in front of the motel window.
Juliette swallowed hard. Whatever momentary peace she’d felt last night had vanished, her veins crackling with panic, her blood pumping gasoline. She didn’t want to make herself look more guilty than she already did, but she had to get out of here. The moment the police cleared her, she’d be gone.
It wasn’t the first time she’d had to run—far from it. But the pit in her belly was new, a little voice in her head whispering about grief and regret, hissing that if she left, she’d never see the detective again.
It made no sense. She barely knew him. And it wasn’t as if she could get close to him—have a real relationship. He didn’t even know her name.
And he never could.
No, he was just a way to pass the time—a bandage for her shattered self-esteem. And for the rest of her life, whenever she was feeling down, she’d remember the way he looked at her. She’d remember the way he’d mouthed beautiful. She’d recall the way she’d believed him, if only for the night.
The fantasy had to be enough. It had to be.
The sign for The Velvet Cage approached on her right. An angry purple backdrop with neon lights that only worked sometimes, turning it into HE VET AGE, which sounded more like a medical service for older male poodles than a strip club. She grabbed the handle and pushed, but… the door didn’t budge. What the hell?