Page 7 of Cutter

Worse, up to this point, no one in her department had taken the time to uncover proof to either substantiate or deny Cutter’s confession. Had he, in fact, attacked the guard? Many a night, she’d been kept awake by the gnawing suspicion that the truth had been conveniently misplaced for the sake of bolstering the DA’s accusation and his meteoric rise.

Now that the incident was in the past, she crossed her fingers that Cutter didn’t hold any grudges. If he agreed to help her, she had every intention of advocating on his behalf whenever he applied to expunge his record. That was the least the department could do for him.

If, on the other hand, he told her where to shove her investigation and demanded she forget he existed, she’d respect his wishes.

Although, she’d hate not seeing or talking with him again. Because deep inside, Emily had relished the idea of spending up-close-and-personal time with the delicious-looking man, if only to satisfy her need for eye candy.

For sure, I’d miss seeing you, Mr. Luka Zejak, with the interesting biker name.

“Still here, querida?” The surprise question brought Emily out of her dreams. As she glanced at the doorway, Yoanni Sanz, Captain Weaver’s civilian, trilingual, and multi-talented assistant/secretary, leaned her curvy form against the doorframe.

Emily smiled, straightening in her chair. “You know how it is. My shift is flexible.”

“Yeah.” Yoanni snickered. “Flexible for the others, rigid for you, chica. It’s after six, and Cap told me to go home.”

“So go.” Emily waved her fingers at her. “You’re free to roam at will.”

“Now you sound like an airline commercial.” Yoanni sashayed toward Emily’s cubicle, enhancing her generous round hips.

When she was first introduced to the station, no one knew how to handle the hazel-eyed bombshell’s personality. Born in Cuba, Yoanni was full of life. Her gestures were effervescent, expansive, and descriptive. Detractors called her loud, cheap, and fake.

After several months of working more or less together, Emily got a good grasp of the young woman’s character. There was no affectation in Yoanni. Her seductive femininity was an ingrained trait, and its unrestrained expression was so natural and genuine that she drove the men in the station gaga.

Yoanni planted a fist on her hip. “I thought we could go for an adult beverage. I sense a Moscow mule is in my future.”

“Moscow mule, wow. Your choice of cocktails has gotten fancy, my friend.”

“Not really.” Yoanni winked. “It’s refreshing and tasty. You should try one. The bartenders at Last Call are faithful to the recipe. They use the copper mug and add a full sprig of mint.”

“I’m duly impressed,” she responded, looking from the file on her desk to her friend. “You know what?” Emily opened her cabinet drawer. After sliding Cutter’s file within her M cases instead of the Cs for security’s sake, she closed the drawer and locked it. “I’ll come with. I could use a drink or two, and I have something to talk to you about.” She tossed the key into her purse and stood.

“Ooh.” Yoanni gave a mock shiver. “Sounds mysterious. Don’t make me wait. Tell me now.”

Emily glanced around the office, pausing briefly on the corner cameras with a meaningful expression. “No… I need freshair. The matter can wait. It’s not that important. Chatting over a cocktail sounds perfect.”

Yoanni nodded. She’d caught on to the message. Emily didn’t want to talk in front of the surveillance cameras. “Makes sense. You’ve been cooped up for hours.”

As Emily exited her cubicle, Yoanni wrapped her arm around hers. “I’m so happy you’re joining me. Last Call hired a yummy-looking new bartender.” Yoanni gave a soft squeal, tugging her toward the door. “Can’t wait for you to meet him.”

“All right, all right,” Emily protested. “I’m walking as fast as I can.”

“You say that now because you haven’t seen this guy yet. Wait till you do. He’s…”

“I know,” she interrupted. “He’s gorgeous.”

“Something like that.” Giggling, Yoanni took the lead toward the front processing room and the exit.

Last Call was the kind of pub one would expect to find in Europe or one of the big northeast cities like New York or Boston. The owners had designed it in the old-fashioned style of neighborhood hangouts. The room was long and gloomy, perfect for private meetings and hushed conversations. The old-looking and dusty chandelier hanging over the entryway gave off something similar to illumination.

The entry walkway extended past the bartender’s station. Lined up against the mirrored wall, multiple shelves were stocked to the brim with all sorts of alcohol brands. A draft beer system offered a wide selection of colorful taps. A row of stools, presently occupied by hunched-over individuals, was situated before the counter.

Yoanni strode in. She waved left and right with the familiarity of someone who knew everyone and every corner of the place, then slid into the first open booth.

“Won’t be long before he comes over to take our drink orders.” She leaned close to Emily. The effort to whisper shouldn’t be necessary. The closest table with two men was several feet away, and nearby booths were empty. Beyond the initial greeting when they first walked in, no one was paying attention to them.

Or so it seemed.

Emily had taught Yoanni all about subterfuge and pretense.

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