The bartender tapped down her drink, then spun away.
Next to her, a set of forearms slid onto the bar, a fifty-dollar bill pinched between two fingers. “Do I gotta flash some titties around here to get a drink or what?”
“It might help,” she said, taking her first sip. “It is Ladies’ Night after all.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one who’s paying.”
She snuck a look at him: broad shoulders, a Chinese-character tattoo on his bicep, and sharp, almond-shaped eyes.
“I see you didn’t pay,” he said, nodding at her drink.
“Oh,” Cassidy said as a rush of heat crept up her neck. “That’s because this is my brother’s place.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? How come I haven’t seen you around?”
“I don’t live here,” she answered, stirring her drink. And after I nearly drank myself into a coma a year and a half ago, bars aren’t exactly a safe place for me.
Jer returned with two highball glasses filled with amber liquid and two oversized ice cubes. The man sifted a ten-dollar bill from the change and slid it across the bar, then pocketed the rest.
“You here visiting Quinn?” he asked, taking a sip of one of the drinks.
Cassidy sucked the juice from the orange wedge as she considered her answer. “Yeah. Just for a few days.”
He nodded, then picked up the other drink. “Well, safe travels,” he said, and slipped back into the crowd.
She saw Quinn talking to a pair of women, a sly smile on his face. He laughed at something one of them said, and though Cassidy couldn’t hear the joke, the sight of him enjoying himself made her smile. Moments later, he reappeared, his easy look gone. “Was that guy bothering you?” he asked, nodding at the man who was sauntering toward the far end of the bar.
“No, who is he?”
Quinn grimaced. “He and his buddies have started hanging out here lately.”
“And you don’t approve? He was a little bit on the macho side, but he tipped well.”
Quinn’s face darkened. “That’s the problem. Their money seems to grow on trees. That one,” he paused to nod at the man Cassidy had spoken to, “offered to buy Drift a few months ago.”
Cassidy leaned past Quinn to take in the man, now standing with a group of young Asian men accompanied by several women, all dressed in a variation of the short skirt, high heel and low-cut top ensemble. Cassidy could practically smell their perfume.
“And you told him to pound sand?”
Quinn shook his head. “Basically.”
Cassidy watched the man wrap his arm around his date, a slender woman with long black hair and a long gold necklace that shone in the light. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear. Cassidy watched her prim cheeks redden, but she let him pull her closer.
“The one that talked to you, his name is Bo. I’ve seen him out in the lineup at Ocean Beach.”
“He surfs?”
“Yeah, he and his gang of lookalikes. I think they work at the Port.”
Jer arrived with a margarita for Quinn, then spun away. Quinn seemed lost in thought for a long moment before wrapping his fingers around the glass and bringing it to his lips.
Cassidy sipped the last of her drink. “Well, I think I’d better call it a night.”
Quinn sucked in one of the ice cubes from his drink and chewed it thoughtfully. “Right. You gotta rest up for your surf date with Bruce.”
“It is not a date,” she said, her voice more forceful than she intended.
“I’d come watch you guys but, well…”
“Don’t say it,” Cassidy groaned, wondering which of the two women who had made him laugh was going to end up inviting him home.
“Besides, you’ll have Bruce to show you the ropes,” he said with a sly smile as he raised his glass to his lips.
Cassidy ignored the way this made the anticipation in her gut intensify. It was just Bruce, after all. He cared about her, and she cared about him, just like good friends do, end of story.
Eight
Weak, early sunlight washed over the quiet street as Cassidy hurried down to meet Bruce, her surfboard tucked under her arm. Bruce helped her attach her board to the top of his SUV, their fingers communicating in the darkness. She tossed her bag in the backseat, discovering to her delight that a cup of coffee waited for her in the console.
“Thank you,” she said after he slid into the driver’s seat.
“There’s a café on 9th that makes the best French roast. I always stop if I’m heading to Ocean Beach. They have scones, too.”
Cassidy peeked inside a brown paper bag to find two blueberry scones. “Wow. You can take me surfing anytime.”
Stopping at the intersection, Bruce turned away to check for cross traffic, but not before she caught the way his face tightened.
Uh oh. Had she said something wrong?
“I was able to pull Pete’s accident report yesterday,” he said as they headed north toward Golden Gate Park.
She blinked at the passing businesses, all closed: the surf shop, the drug store, the neighborhood grocery, and recalled the papers she had never had the nerve to give more than a cursory glance.
“There’s not much there. Local law enforcement responded, and they’re not as thorough as State Patrol.”
“Did the police take pictures of the marks on the road?” she asked as her mind spun too fast. Why had he looked at her like that? came first, followed by: would he find a link to Lars’ murder?
“That’s the thing. It was the middle of the night, remember?”
“But I saw them. I was there the day after it happened.”
“Here’s something I learned from State Patrol on another case a few years ago. Skid marks actually show up better the next day.”
Cassidy turned away in anguish. “You’re saying they don’t show in Pete’s report.”
“I can see them, but they’re very faint. And they were taken in the very early hours of the morning, so the light isn’t great.”
“What about Lars?”
Bruce entered Golden Gate Park, the urban
