16. Patrick

Emily chewed slowly, her lips pursed in just the right amount of pucker to let me know she was thinking more than consuming. When she dabbed the corners of her mouth like some Contessa in a foreign film, I knew she was either about to share some serious tea or I was in even more hot water.

I shifted in my seat and tried not to dribble ketchup on my shirt.

"Sit up straight, Patrick. You are a reporter, not a barbarian."

My spine straightened faster than a soldier ordered to attention.

She dabbed again then rested the tines of her fork on the edge of her plate, adjusting it once, as if its placement called into question the world order.

"Why did you want to have lunch?" flew out of my mouth before my brain could stop it.

Her brows shot up, and her gray bun cocked to one side, looking like it wanted to fall off its perch. She reached up and carefully removed her glasses, peering through them for the dust or fingerprint we both knew wasn't there before setting them on the table beside her plate.

… and adjusting them once.

"Does a mentor need a reason to have lunch with her mentee?"

"Well, no—"

"Or a friend? What about friends having lunch? Does one need a reason to dine with a friend?"

She was a senior writer, one of the most senior in the entire newsprint game. We were coworkers, and she was my mentor. I would even call her my teacher.

But my friend? That thought had never crossed my mind.

One did not get too close with one's lord or lady, I imagined her saying in a thick British accent—because all truly serious warnings or advice required a British accent to be official or effective.

So, why the friend business now? My Spidey sense was tingling its furry-legged ass off. "Um, no, I guess not."

"Good." She tossed her napkin on her plate despite the half-eaten meal still residing there. "How is your fireman?"

Myfireman? What the hell? There's no way she could know Dane and I had been on a date. And that didn't make him my anything. He was just a dude … a dude I might like … a lot … and want to sleep with again … though, technically, we didn't sleep much when we were together. In fact, staring at Em's soiled linen, I couldn't remember us sleeping together at all.

My mouth quirked at the memory of him smushing me against his fridge. I could feel the cold metal against my cheek as he slammed me over and over—

"Patrick? Where did you go? And why are you grinning like that?"

My face flushed. I snatched up my own napkin and tried to dab in the same prim, dainty way she had, but ended up smearing ketchup all over my lips instead. I had to flip the darn napkin inside out and wipe again.

"Oh my. That fireman must be quite good at … how should I say it … using his hose?"

I wanted to hurl right there at the table. Talking to Emily about sex was like talking to my mom about, well, sex. Eww.

"Em, he's a source. I wouldn't—"

She reached down and raised her glasses to her eyes, peering through them at me without actually putting them on her face. "I see you, you know. Very clearly."

Shit. This was why she was such a brilliant reporter. She was basically a walking lie detector who could, with a few simple words and an evil glare, make the strongest men wilt beneath her sun.

And wilt I did. My voice became that of a mouse in a Disney cartoon. "I know I shouldn't have, but Emily, he's so handsome and strong … and he's really nice, even though he sounds all mean and tough, like he's going to rip your head off but doesn't want to but it's his duty so there goes your head."

She blinked once. Then again. Then she set her glasses back down. And adjusted them once. "So, you have slept with him. More than once, I take it?"

My gaze fell. Suddenly my own plate was like a magnet whose pull I couldn't resist. Or were her eyes the magnet repelling my own? My mastery of analogies faltered under Solis Emilius.

"Good."

My head snapped up. "Good?"

She nodded once, crisply, with finality.

I sat back, both relieved and bewildered.

"You will have better access now. I have a lead for you, one I would keep for myself if you had not already been, well, inserted into the situation."

Her coy grin made a shiver run like fingernails along my back.

She leaned forward and motioned for me to do the same. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely a whisper. "The APD is investigating alleged theft of medical supplies from Station Fifty-Four. They suspect one of the firefighters is stealing drugs and selling them."

"Stealing drugs?"

She nodded. "Did you see the drug lockers or kits or whatever they call them on your tour?"

I thought a moment. "Yeah, there were med kids the EMTs use. Some were in lockers, others on trucks. The ambulance was packed with drugs and equipment, and I bet the lockers beside where it's parked have more. I never saw a storeroom or anything like that, but …"

"But what?" She strummed her nails against the tablecloth, a muffled version of her fidget spinner that sparked creativity. I knew all her ticks.

"There was a guy checking expiration dates. I didn't give it any thought at the time, but he had boxes of drugs spread out, going through them one by one."

"Is that common? Doing a check like that? How often does it happen?"

I shrugged. "I think someone does it every day. At least, that's how it sounded. Dane was explaining all the daily checks they do when we walked by, so that would stand to reason."

"That makes my Spidey sense tingle."

Dear god, had this woman just used a Spider-Man reference? Maybe I didn't know as many of her ticks as I thought.

She paused and glanced around, likely more for effect than to see if anyone was listening. "You need to dig into this. Find the thief before the police. Get the scoop."

I remained crouched over the table, my mouth open, eyes blinking slowly, unable to wrap my brain around her knowing about Dane, then wanting me to use our … whatever it was … to out some thief on his team.

My body slumped back on its own. Someone on Dane's team was stealing drugs.

Oh shit. What if it's Dane?

My stomach clenched.

He had a really nice place, a lot nicer than I would've expected for a public servant, at least on the inside. I still couldn't believe he'd done all that work himself. It was as professional as any renovation I'd seen and would've taken a team of workers weeks to complete. How long had it taken him, if he'd even done it himself like he'd said?

I was being silly. Dane was a good guy. I could see it in his eyes. I felt it in his touch.

Okay, maybe that wasn't what I felt in his touch. Still …

"Patrick? Patrick, come back to me." Emily snapped her fingers across the table.

"Sorry, I was just thinking."

A tiny smirk played at one corner of her mouth. "Good. I'm not used to that from you."

My mouth made an O but no sound came out.

She chuckled and lifted her tea glass to her lips. With a thunk, she set it down and dabbed her lips again. "You need to keep your mind clear and eyes open. My source in the APD wouldn't tell me who they suspected, so it could be anyone with access to the drug lockers in the station. Do you think you could get another day with them?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure Dane would help arrange it. But my story is due next week. I might not be able to—"

"I'll handle that." She waved a hand in the air. "Evan will give you all the time you need if you can get this story before the outlets pick up the scent."

The outlets were the local TV stations. There were other, smaller papers in the Metro Atlanta area, but the television reporters were our real competition. The battle for news supremacy was never-ending with that lot.

"Okay. I'll try to arrange something—"

Her index finger stabbed across the table. "You will do no such thing. You will not try. Cub reporters try. You are a real newsman. You will get that story, understand?"

Visions of the scowling gunnery sergeant in Full Metal Jacket flashed before me as her steely glare bore into me. I nodded briskly.

"Good." She rose, a queen dismissing her court. "I have work to do. Call your fireman. Sleep with him if you have to—if you haven't already. Whatever it takes. Be the investigative journalist you always dreamed of becoming."

She turned and took two steps, then stopped and looked back. "One more thing."

"Okay." I gulped, trying to swallow down whatever she'd just fed me. Her face had taken on the cowl of an overburdened mother.

"Don't disappoint me."