Page 25 of The Woman with the Wallet

I nodded at the bartender, then led Max toward the back of the bar, letting her sit with her back to everyone, so she was only facing me.

Satisfied with that, she pulled off her hood, sucked in a deep breath, then looked at me.

“I did see him,” she admitted.

“Gathered that,” I agreed as the waitress made her way over.

Max turned away, pretending to inspect something on the wall. “Two whiskeys. But heavy on the rocks,” I said, thinking of the marks on her throat, how much it must have hurt just to swallow, let alone keep talking. “Took a chance you take things straight,” I said when she looked back at me.

“So long as it’s cold, I don’t care. What do you want to know first?”

“Did he say anything?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Yeah, he said he saw me lift your wallet.”

Whoever this was, he’d been watching me. Maybe lying in wait, trying to find his opening to lift the wallet himself or take it by force.

But who the fuck could it have been?

I’d been working this job quiet as a fucking mouse. Cosimo didn’t know. My family didn’t. So there was no way that the word had gotten out that way.

Which only left people who’d been involved with the job. Or anyone they had possibly spoken to.

Which, yeah, didn’t fare well for me. Suspects could be in the dozens, hundreds.

Fuck.

“Did you see him?” I asked.

“At first, he had on the ski mask. But in the struggle, I pulled it off.”

“Any chance you happen to be a whiz at sketching?”

“Sure,” she said, but there was a sarcastic tug to her lips. “If you want a stick figure. A lopsided one.”

I let out a small huff of a laugh as our drinks were dropped off, watching Max reach for it like a lifeline, then savor the cold first sip.

“Alright. Well, do you think you would recognize him if you saw him again?” I asked.

“I’ll never forget that fuck’s face.”

“Anything distinctive about him?”

“No. He was almost painfully average. No birthmarks or scars. He was a dishwater blond with blue eyes. The bright kind of blue. Average to thin lips. Straight nose, not overly prominent. Maybe six foot.”

“What about his build?” I asked, then watched Max raise a brow. “Let me guess. Average?”

“Yeah. Not bulky, but not skinny either. Strong.”

“What about what he had on? Any jewelry?”

“Not that I saw, no. He was dressed for a burglary. All black. But he came with zip ties. I guess they were in his pocket or something. Things were going in warp speed.”

“Scent?” I asked, knowing I was getting desperate, but I needed something other than dirty blond and blue-eyed.

“Actually,” she said, brows pinching as the memory came back. “Yeah. He reeked of cigarettes. You don’t find that much anymore,” she went on. “Everyone smells like fruity vapes or weed. But he smelled like cigarette smoke.”

A blond-haired, blue-eyed smoker. It was something to try to run with.

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