“The Feds are going to bring in the brother-in-law,” he said as they stood in the kitchen. He was grabbing two plates out of the cupboard and barely pausing for breath. She could hardly keep up with him.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said as he handed her one of the plates with two slices of pepperoni on it. “I want you to know that.”
Maureen’s relief that the ordeal was finally over was mixed with trepidation over what was to come. Now that she had fulfilled her purpose, what would become of her? Once the killer was in custody, would Layton come back for her and force her to serve time for her other crimes? Could she parlay her cooperation into leniency? Or would she have to go on the run again? Part of her wanted to stay and make a more permanent home, maybe even with Manny. But deep inside she knew that it would never work. Even though her feelings for him had begun to deepen, it would never last. But that was something for the next day. For tonight, there was only one thing to do.
Maureen went to the cabinet and pulled out two of Manny’s double-shot glasses and set them on the counter. She then grabbed the premium bottle of silver tequila that she had been saving for something special. This seemed like as good a time as any, so she filled both to the top and handed one to him.
“A little toast,” she said, grabbing her own glass and raising it to him. “To the best detective I’ve ever known, and the only cop I’ve ever trusted.”
“Salud,” he said, smiling and tipping the shot into his mouth.
“Sláinte,” she said, before draining her own glass.
Maureen filled both glasses again before capping the bottle, tucking it under her arm, and carrying it and her food into the living room. She plopped the bottle and her plate on the coffee table and took a big bite of her pizza. Manny sat down next to her and turned on the television, clicking through the channels until he found the sports show he was looking for.
“So, Irish, huh?” he said as he put down the remote and picked up his own plate.
“What’s that?”
“That toast of yours. It’s Irish, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“I didn’t know you were Irish, that’s all. I don’t think Allen is an Irish name.”
“I’m pretty sure I told you that.”
“You said ‘old country’ when you told me about your mom. Never said that meant Irish.”
Maureen took a swallow of her tequila. She didn’t know how she felt about telling another man in Sycamore Hills about her past, even if that man was Manny. She decided, since he obviously liked her and she didn’t think he was so bad either, that she could give him a little. But he’d have to reciprocate.
“Half Irish. Mom’s a Keane from Donoughmore in Cork. Dad’s American. He’s older, liked younger women. My mom caught his eye while he was on a business trip, whirlwind romance, better life for her, blah blah blah, you get it.”
“But they obviously broke up. Did it have something to do with your brother’s murder?”
Maureen nearly choked on her pizza. “I know I didn’t tell you that!”
“Layton,” he said. “It’s in his case notes. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry.”
“Just forget about it,” she replied, shaking her head and finishing her drink before pouring another. “But yeah, you’re right, they broke up. Though they were already separated when my brother died.”
“I’m guessing you don’t see them often, judging by your nomadic existence.”
“Haven’t seen my dad since I was eight. Mom, maybe around thirteen.”
“No desire to reconnect?”
“My dad left me and my brother with our conservative, superstitious Irish Catholic of a mother to screw his secretary. Why would I want to have anything to do with either of them?”
“We all need family.”
“Not all of us.”
Manny took a drink of tequila and finished off his first slice. Maureen sat quiet for a moment before deciding she wanted her reciprocity.
“What about you?” she asked the detective.
“What about me?” he replied.
“You’ve had me here basically as your hostage for more than a week,” she said, putting as much honey in her voice as possible, “and yet, you haven’t told me anything about yourself. I’ve told you stuff about me. It’s only fair.”
“What do you wanna know?”
“You’re a smart guy, obviously. Why be a detective?”
“I wanted to give back to my hometown.”
She took a hard look at him and their eyes met. The detective held her stare for only a moment before he blinked and looked to the side. “You’re lying,” she said triumphantly.
“How can you tell?” he asked with a grin.
“I’m psychic.”
Manny looked as if he was trying to hold back his laughter at her on-the-nose joke, but it trickled out regardless. Maureen smiled too.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said.
Maureen jumped off the couch and dashed into the kitchen. She grabbed another plate and piled a few more slices onto it before shoving the box with the remaining pizza into the fridge. Out of the fridge, she pulled out a six-pack of beer and then returned to the living room. She set the fresh provisions on the table and filled both their glasses up with tequila again.
“I’ve got a game we can play,” she said to Manny, sitting down and tucking a leg under her. “You’ve been trying to get to know me, but you haven’t told me much about yourself, so I’ve got a way we can do both. We take turns asking each other questions. If you answer, the other person has to drink. If you don’t answer, then you have to drink. You can play with beer or tequila, your choice.”
“I’m game.”
“Opening shot first,” she said and grabbed her shot glass and drank it down.
The detective hesitated for a second, then followed suit. She reached for the bottle again, but he beat her to it
