“I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you, though. I wasn’t crazy about the way he put his arm across your shoulders.”
Cassidy had the urge to shake off Bo’s imaginary arm draped across her. “I just have to string him along long enough for him to get himself in trouble.”
“I’ll do my best to make it swift.”
“But be careful,” she said. “If he thinks it’s a setup…”
“Don’t worry,” he said, though they both knew those words held no weight.
After parting ways with Quinn, Cassidy returned to his apartment and dove into work mode, making sure to keep both of her phones nearby and turned on. Which made fully engaging in her tasks difficult. She struggled to focus, but kept thinking of Quinn. He was meeting Bo in the late afternoon at Drift to bring him samples. Special Agent Harris’s team had already placed listening devices in Quinn’s office and the delivery bay. Thankfully, he wouldn’t need the body recorder this time.
The time of Quinn’s meeting approached, and Bo didn’t call. By early evening, Cassidy had managed to complete the edits on a paper that was full of holes. Likely, she had taken out her frustrations on the authors, but whatever. She had zero tolerance for lazy data analysis, so they deserved her wrath. As well, she had spent some of her startup money on several pieces of equipment that she needed for her lab, arranged for a housesitting service to move her trash bins and water her lawn until she could return, and processed several hundred emails. Meaning that when she drifted out to the patio with a glass of ice water for a breath of fresh air, she missed Bo’s text.
Playing pool tonight @Legends. Come by.
A sickly pulse of nausea washed into her stomach.
She used the burner phone to notify Bruce, then waited, her hands gripping the railing. Below her, a gray-haired man in a baggy pair of shorts and no shirt was helping a woman in a shiny blue car work her way out of a tight parking spot.
Don’t reply yet, Bruce wrote.
Cassidy returned inside, her skin itchy and her feet restless. She texted Quinn while she waited.
How’d it go?
It’s linens. It went fine.
But did anything happen?
Yes. Best I tell you later.
Sudden warmth flushed through her as she tried to read between the lines. Maybe things would move quickly, and she could finally go home.
Bo texted her again. ??
She waited for Bruce to tell her it was okay to reply, but it didn’t come. Annoyed, she typed out her reply: Yes
Eighteen
“I told you to wait,” Bruce’s voice rang in her ear.
“You also told me to play along,” Cassidy replied, fuming.
Bruce exhaled a long sigh. “I’m sorry I made you wait. But I was checking the location to make sure it’s safe.”
“Is it?” she asked.
“Yes, as far as we can tell.”
Cassidy tapped the phone’s speaker function and placed her phone on her nightstand. She flipped through her meager collection of clothing, finally settling on a soft grey V-neck t-shirt and a pair of fancy jeans Emily had insisted she buy during one of their Mission District thrift shop hunts. She took a pull from the glass of liquid courage she’d poured after her shower.
“I guess you’ll just have to try to relax and be good company.”
A twinge of nerves settled in her gut. “But also, don’t let him get me alone, is that right?”
“Correct.”
She tugged on the jeans, shutting the drawer with more force than necessary, then pulled on the shirt, scooping her wavy hair free of the collar.
She sat on the bed and cradled her glass. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“We’ll be watching. If we think you’re in danger, we’ll move.”
She sipped her drink, her hand shaking. “Okay.”
During her ride, which she shared with a young woman dressed in scrubs, she looked out the window while sliding her four-leaf clover pendant side to side. Would Bo try to confide in her tonight? Or was she just some decorative addition to his entourage?
When she stepped through the entrance of the billiards club, the wide-open space glowed green from the felt on the many tables, lit from above by rectangular low-hanging fixtures. Players of various sizes and ages moved about the tables, trading shots, and the sound of the balls hitting and clunking into pockets filled the room. She scanned the groups until she located Bo’s in the corner to her right, farthest from the bar, a television above them broadcasting what looked like a track and field meet. Two Asian men wearing jeans and t-shirts played a game of pool at one table, and Bo and another man played at the neighboring one. Bo’s partner, a Caucasian who wore his ball cap backwards, along with a wife-beater t-shirt and a pair of long, forest green cutoff shorts, returned to his perch next to a woman whose shiny black hair was secured in a twist with red chopsticks.
Cassidy stood debating—get a drink first or approach Bo first—when Bo met her gaze. He leaned over the table to line up a shot. His stick smacked the ball forcefully, sending what she assumed was the appropriate one into the opposite side pocket. He stood, a smug look in his eyes. He moved to take his next shot while his partner spoke close to the woman’s ear. The woman crossed her legs and tapped two red straws into her drink.
Cassidy made her way to Bo’s table, the sound of smacking billiard balls and conversation mixing with the buzz of rock music playing from overhead speakers.
“You play?” Bo asked, meeting her at the corner of the table while his partner lined up his shot.
“Not for a while,” she said, wishing she had gone to the bar first. She sensed the Asian woman on the stool watching her and felt her hackles bristle.
“I’m about ready to finish Jones off,” Bo boasted, scooping up his drink from the narrow shelf
