“You got a pack of smokes?”
“What brand?”
He named a popular product.
The man reached under the counter and produced a pack.
Zane paid cash and put the box in his pocket.
“Get you something to drink?”
“No thinks,” he answered before turning and heading down the hall toward the bathrooms. He saw an exit down there, but a sign said an alarm would sound if the door was opened. Which meant that if Tuckerman showed up, he’d be coming in the same entrance Zane had used.
He went into the urine-stinking men’s room and used the facilities, just in case anyone was keeping track of him.
When he’d finished, he wanted to throw the cigarettes into the trash, but he kept them in his pocket, even though the tobacco smell was getting to him.
A minute later he was stepping out the door and ambling back to the car.
He saw Francesca visibly relax when she spotted him. He stopped at a trash barrel and tossed in the pack of cancer sticks.
“I was starting to get worried,” she said as he slid behind the wheel.”
“I wanted to seem casual.”
“Was—Tuckerman there?”
“No.”
“I don’t know whether to be glad or relieved.”
“I had the same thoughts.” He looked over at her, then tipped his own seat back.
“We just wait?” she asked.
“You want to play blackjack?”
She laughed.
He settled down, wondering when the guy usually showed up, if at all. They watched a couple of customers leave and pull out of parking spaces. Several more arrived.
He was considering how long this stakeout was going to take when another car slid into the space directly on his left. The breath froze in his lungs when he saw a big man with short hair, a beefy face, and big hands get out and settle his pants more comfortably around his waist.
Zane would have recognize the bastard anywhere after seeing him tossing trash onto the ground in the park like he was scattering birdseed. It was Tuckerman, and the man was staring right at them.
From the passenger seat, Francesca couldn’t see who had gotten out of the car, but she saw Zane’s reaction, and her breath hitched.