Page 11 of Shadows of Justice

I blow out a breath, gratefully accepting the slap on the wrist.

“I’ll write the best damned addendum you’ve ever seen, sir,” I say, my eyes filling with tears. None of them fall, thank fuck. He nods, chuckling at me.

“I know you will. You’re dismissed Schaeffer,” he says.

I get up, restraining my legs from running to the door, and head out into the hall.

“Viv,” he calls, and I turn to him. “If I see you at your desk before your shift tomorrow evening, I’m canning you myself.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, and shut the door behind me.

I release a breath and wipe my hands down my face, blinking away the tears. That was close. Too fucking close. I’m a rule follower, an enforcer of the law. I do things by the book—that’s my comfort zone. I’m following orders from now on, and that’s not going to change again.

This is the new and improved Viv.

I check the time on my phone, seeing a missed call from Tim that I happily delete. It’s 4:45 PM on a Friday. One thing resonates in my mind—just in time for happy hour.

The first order I’m following as the new and improved Viv: I’m going to fix this.

Hooligan’s is a dump.

I’ve been in better port-a-potties. The wood paneling is intact, at least, but the ‘70s called and wants it back. The buzzing of the Coors Lite neon sign above my head is loud enough to make me grind my teeth, and the thunderclap of pool balls slamming again and again is making me jumpy. I suck down another swig of my Jameson with ginger ale, thankful for the straw. The idea of putting my mouth on one of these glasses makes me want to retch.

I’m no debutant, but even I have standards.

The whiskey is settling nicely in my veins and I try to sit back and just relax, even though relaxation is the last reason I’m here. I still haven’t just enjoyed a night off in an embarrassingly long time, unless you count accompanying Tim to a happy hour here and there with his work buddies from his insurance job. All they usually have at the places they choose to go to are wine or craft beer. Not exactly my drinks of choice.

I suck the straw on my drink, draining the last of my whiskey, and head to the bar to flag the bartender down for another. I’ve been here almost three hours, and luckily only been approached once. The guy had been nice enough, if he’d had any teeth. I assured him that I wasn’t a hooker and sent him packing.

The bartender is a plump, busty woman that has poured herself into some daisy dukes and a black, fishnet top. She ripped it on the collar so that her tattoo-encrusted cleavage is readily on display, her pierced nipples shamelessly showing beneath the fabric. She looks me up and down for the third time, clearly wondering what the fuck I’m doing here.

I smile, adjusting the LA Dodgers hat further down on my head. I know it’s a cliché, but the only other one I have had Pasadena PD on it.

“Another, snowflake?” the bartender asks, smacking her gum. I nod, thanking her.

I haven’t seen Leo, not that it’d be easy to through the clouds of cigarette smoke. There are mostly biker types, hookers, and drug dealers making sales. I’ve watched at least three since I sat down in a booth towards the back.

The bartender returns with my drink, eyeing my outfit. I’m in a white camisole and black, ripped jeans, my hair pulled back and hidden as much as possible. I’m sure I do look a little out of place, but it’s crowded in here and I’m banking on that.

“7.50,” she says, the dermal in her cheek dimple glinting under the seedy red lighting. I hand her a ten, and then place two twenties in my fingers on the bar top.

“Thank you. I didn’t get your name,” I say sweetly. Her eyes go to the twenties and then to me, and a smirk curls her red lips.

“Maxine.”

“Maxine, great. I’m Collette,” I lie. “I’m sure it’s clear I don’t exactly fit in here.” I huff a laugh and she smacks her gum some more, nodding in agreement. “I was hoping you could help me out with something. Something that I would appreciate your discretion on.”

She leans a fleshy arm on the bar top, coming a little closer to hear me over the roar of Steppenwolf’s Born to be Wild blaring on the jukebox.

“My sister got her heart broken by a dickhead that I’ve heard comes in here. I’m trying to find him,” I say, sliding the twenties over the sticky wood and into her nail-polished fingers. “His name is Leo—Leo Barone. He roughed her up real good, left her pregnant and disconnected his phone. You know a guy by that name?”

Maxine narrows her charcoal-lined eyes at me, regarding me for a moment. “You a cop? You have to tell me, you know,” she says, with a side of sass.

When will people understand that’s a myth?

“Nope,” I say. “Just a pissed off big sister.”

Maxine blows a bubble and pops it, the scent of Bubble-Yum wafting to me and mixing with second-hand smoke and stale alcohol. “I don’t know any Leo Barone, lady. What’s he look like?”

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