Chapter Twelve

Robin

"How are you doing, sweetheart?"

Waving my hand in the air was all I could muster. As it was, I was pretty damn sure my head was never leaving this bar. Since I took this case, my insomnia had been in overdrive. When I wanted to sleep, I couldn't, and when I needed to be awake, it took everything in me to keep my eyes open. All I knew was if I didn't get a decent night's sleep soon, I wasn't going to be useful to anyone.

"Robin, why don't you go into my office and rest for a little bit? You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"I know," I muttered. "I'm so close, Mom. I can feel it. This bastard is going to mess up soon, and when he does, I'll get the break I need to find him."

"Have you thought about calling in help?"

"Who, Mom? Who would I call?"

"I think you already know the answer to that."

"He's retired. The last I heard, he's living on top of a mountain in Virginia somewhere. I have no way of getting in touch with him."

"Yes, you do."

Lifting my head off the bar, I narrowed my eyes. "How?"

My mom was a good woman. Smart as hell and friends with everyone. So it wasn't a surprise she would know someone who knew someone who had a friend who could contact Shaw Dalton.

"Let's just say that a former family friend has recently returned home, and they've reached out to me. It also just happens that this family friend knows Shaw personally and how to get in touch with him."

"You scare me sometimes, Mom."

My mom laughed as she walked away to serve another customer.

Sitting up, I stretched, moaning as my body reluctantly tried to wake the fuck up.

"May I buy you a drink?" An older man with jet black hair that was graying at the temples smiled when he sat down on the stool next to me. He was a devilishly handsome man, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that accentuated his muscular physique very well. The man reeked of money, and when he smiled at me, I could feel his charm ooze out.

Generally, men like him never interested me, but something about this man caught my attention. For starters, a man of his caliber was unheard of in a family-owned bar. He should be uptown, slumming it with the hoity-toity of society. Yet, he looked comfortable and content here in my mom's bar.

"On duty."

"Oh, are you a firewoman?"

I chuckled at that. "No. I'm a police officer."

The man looked around before leaning close and whispered, "Not sure if you know this, but you're in the wrong bar. This is a fireman's bar."

Whispering back, I said, "I know. My mom owns the bar."

"Well then"—the man sat up straighter—"I didn't know I was sitting next to the owner. Must be my lucky night. I'm Devlin Scott."

Taking his hand, I shook. "Robin Calloway. So, what brings you out tonight, Mr. Scott?"

"I'm in town on business, and I heard this was a wonderful place for a pint of beer."

"What kind of business are you in?"

"This and that, but mainly I'm in the hospitality business."

"That sounds... pleasurable."

The man smirked, reached for his pint of beer, then leaned closer so only I could hear. "You have no idea."