Page 54 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Selina felt guilty. But not so guilty that she’d cave and “be reasonable.”

She and Carmen had been raised to be strong. Their parents had taught them from a young age not to be followers. Not to go along with the crowd. Both sisters had taken it to heart, each forging her own path.

Carmen had gone into law enforcement. At first, their parents had been alarmed but gradually had come to accept her choice—and eventually to take pride in it.

For Selina, that had meant pursuing gymnastics, a physically and mentally demanding sport that had given the one they had viewed as their “baby girl” a competitive streak, the ability to overcome pain and rippling muscles.

“Ay, mija,” her mother would say when, for instance, she’d sprained an ankle during a floor routine. “You have to stop.”

But Selina had asked the trainer to “tape the hell out of it” so she could finish her meet.

This was the spirit of the Sanchez women. A tradition she proudly carried on.

A tradition that was currently driving Detective Ryan Hall to the breaking point, she could see.

“Civilians don’t participate in police investigations,” he said to her as they pulled into the parking lot of Paquito’s Bar in a seedy part of North Hollywood.

“Technically, it’s not one,” she said sweetly. “Carmen hasn’t made it official, and you don’t have jurisdiction.”

“You know what I’m saying.”

“And besides, we’re just talking to a bartender, not a suspect.”

“It’s still an investigation, whoever you’re talking to.” He shut off the engine and turned to face her. “I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll be blunt.” He looked her up and down. “This is a sleazy joint and you’re ... hot.”

He blushed. And she felt a shiver of pleasure to hear him use the word to describe her.

“You’ll attract the wrong kind of attention. I’ll go in there by myself.”

She felt terrible for doing it but played on his chivalry. “And leave me out here in this parking lot all by myself? Anyone could snatch me right out of this car.”

She had a brief thought about the black SUV, the Edge, and even looked around for it, but saw no sign.

“It’s North Hollywood. True, it’s not Beverly Hills, but the odds of getting kidnapped are pretty low. And do you really think there’s anybody here you couldn’t kick their ass?”

Her sister had taught Selina some basic, but effective, martial arts moves.

Her shrug was accompanied by a plaintive look. “Sorry, there goes your excuse for not letting me come inside. I’ll just kick the ass of whoever’s wrong kind of attention I attract.”

He sighed.

She saw the inner battle raging in his expressive features.

“Just stay close to me and do exactly what I say.”

The last part of the sentence was a bit of a speed bump, and irritated her, but she put it down to his legit concern about the dangers of going into a bar where hit men—or one at least—frequented.

They climbed out. She navigated around the car and threw her arms around him. “Thank you.” Then she laughed and thumped his chest. “You’re even hunkier than I thought.”

“Ballistic vest. Lot of gold shields wear them under our dress shirts. It’ll come as a shock, but there’re a lot of guns in this country. Let’s go. And remember our deal.”

She tucked away the urge to protest—really? Do exactly what I say ? But didn’t disabuse him of the notion that she would be a meek little lady. “Absolutely.”

She glanced up at the sign above the entrance as she followed Ryan inside.

Paquito’s Bar

She stayed close on his heels as he made his way through the Lysol-scented and dingy interior toward the bar, which was located in the back against the rear wall.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked when they perched themselves on two of the torn vinyl-covered stools in the nearly empty space.

Oh, yeah, a bald vampire.

Shaved head, ultra-pale skin, black spooky eyes.

No missing Nando.

Selina looked around. She was surprised to see how few patrons were in the bar. Was it because the place was known to be dangerous, or was it because they were known to water down their booze? Of course, it was early, though places like this drew flies from the minute the door opened to last call.

“I’ll have a beer,” he said. “IPA. Whatever’s on tap.”

Nando turned to her with a lascivious grin that exposed a gold front tooth. “?Qué quieres, mami? ”

The barkeep was being a tad familiar, but she pretended to be flattered. “A whiskey sour. Maker’s.”

“Hey, you got good taste,” he said, switching to English. The man’s smile widened as he turned to the tap to pull Ryan a house beer before crossing to the whiskey section to prepare her drink.

Even to her unpracticed eye, he seemed to put a lot of booze in the tumbler before adding the other ingredients and shaking it. She also caught the surreptitious wink he gave Ryan.

So this was the kind of bartender who would help get a young woman drunk to make things easier for their dates.

Lovely.

She assessed his height and weight and wondered if a single kick to the cojones would bring him down.

Well, she wasn’t here to correct men who needed correcting.

He plunked the glass in front of her, but she merely swirled it around, then pretended to sip.

“You’re Nando.”

A grunt.

“I hear you can be helpful,” Ryan cut in.

Nando gave her another slow perusal, then turned back to Ryan.

“Sometimes. Depends.”

“I’ve got a problem that needs fixing,” Ryan said. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’d like to talk to Sweeney about it.”

Nando, who had begun wiping glasses with a grubby rag, froze for an instant before resuming the motion. “Don’t know any Sweeney.”

Ryan cocked his head. “Funny. I was told he hangs out here.”

“A lot of people hang out here.”

Selina glanced around the bar, deserted except for one wiry man in a sweat-stained undershirt and jeans and a woman sipping a drink that looked a lot like hers. Ryan shot Selina a quelling look and she refrained from calling out Nando on his dubious assessment of Paquito’s popularity.

“Maybe you pass some information to him?” Ryan asked, trying to salvage the mission. “I’ve got money. You can have a finder’s fee.”

“Can’t help you.”

“You sure? I’m talking some serious green.”

“No green. No Sweeney.”

She couldn’t really blame Nando. Ryan looked like just who he was. A cop.

This was going nowhere. Selina decided to enact plan B.

When the bartender wasn’t looking, she slowly poured the drink out on the floor at her feet. Ryan was the only one who saw, and he frowned.

She slapped the empty glass down. “Gimme another, huh?”

Nando blinked and picked up the glass. She said, “I’m new here but I like fucking California! Twenty-year-olds can drink.”

Nando froze. “What? Hold on a sec, you didn’t tell me you were under twenty-one!”

“She doesn’t have to,” Ryan said, pulling out his gold shield. “It’s your job to check.”

“This is bullshit.” Nando jabbed a finger at Ryan. “It’s ... it’s ... what the hell is the word? Trapping or something.”

“It’s not entrapment,” Ryan said coolly.

“Your job is to ask for ID. You didn’t. This bar’s been fined three times already.

Another violation and you’ll lose your liquor license for six months.

” He gestured around. “I don’t think customers will keep coming here to sip soft drinks and take in the ambience. ”

Nando shut his eyes and huffed out a long breath. “I’m trying to buy this place. I got every penny I own sunk into it.”

What Nando didn’t know was that Detective Ryan Hall of the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department was outside his jurisdiction and had no authority to enforce liquor laws in LA County.

Ryan had explained the issue to Selina when she suggested plan B—in the event Nando wouldn’t sell out Sweeney for money. They’d agreed on the idea after Judd, the con, had told Ryan how much Nando wanted to buy the bar.

Ryan was taking a massive risk by pulling this stunt but assured her he was willing to do it.

For her.

Fortunately, the bar was dark, and the lights looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years. Nando saw the briefly flashed shield and credentials and took Ryan at face value.

After a fair amount of cursing, in English and Spanish, Nando finally relented.

“Look, I don’t know his real name,” Nando said. “And Sweeney’s just his nick. Yeah, he comes in here some, but I don’t know where he lives.”

“But you can get in touch with him,” Ryan said.

“He doesn’t roll like that,” Nando said. “He uses a burner and changes it a lot. When someone wants him, I have to wait until he comes around here to give him the message.”

“You mean the job,” Ryan said. “After which someone either dies or gets hurt. You could be considered an accessory, Nando.”

Beads of sweat stippled Nando’s forehead. “Hey, I just pass messages. I don’t know nothing about what happens after.”

Ryan leaned in and dropped his voice. “If you want to keep this bar, and your freedom, talk. Now.”

Nando swept his hand over his glistening bare scalp. “He came in here a few weeks ago and I had a message for him. He told me to get back to the client and say to meet him at Fillups in an hour.”

“Fillups?”

“It’s a gas station on Stone Canyon Parkway. Sweeney told me he was on his way to see a client who lives in one of those mansions up there. Sounded like he goes there a lot.”

“What’s he driving?” Ryan asked.

“A red Chevy Silverado pickup.”

Ryan looked him over closely. “A few weeks ago ... but you’ve seen him since.”

“What’re you, psychic?”

“Yeah, I’m a fortune teller. You want me to tell your fortune, Nando?”

“All right, chill, dude. Chill. He was here about an hour before you came. Had a couple of beers and left.”

So Ryan had spotted something in the man’s body language. Damn, he was good.

“And when were you planning to share that little piece of info?”

“I don’t want no trouble, okay? That’s all I know.”

No amount of threats could get any more information out of Nando, Ryan apparently concluded. After settling their bill—and promising not to tell the liquor board about the underage drinking if Nando didn’t tell Sweeney a cop was looking for him—they left.

Selina waited until they were in the car, then turned to Ryan. “What now?”

“Talk to local detectives. Get a file going on Sweeney and check out where he’s going up in the hills.”

“So we’re not doing anything right now?” The disappointment in her voice was evident.

“No,” he said firmly. “No more ‘off the book’ stuff. Now it’s ‘by the book.’”

But other events intruded. His phone trilled.

“Detective Hall.”

She waited while he had a brief exchange.

“On my way.” He disconnected and turned to her. “Triple homicide. I’m not the lead, but they’re calling me in to help work it.” He put the car in gear. “I’ll drop you back at my place. You can keep Caliber company till I get back.”

She sat in the front passenger seat as a thought occurred to her.

It was good that Sweeney was driving a red Silverado. Whoever worked at that gas station, Fillups, where he’d gone, would likely remember a nice big garish truck like that.