Page 23 of A Step You Shouldn't Take

“Then what do you want?”

“I understand that last week, you went out for a birthday dinner at Luigi’s? One of your friends—”

“Mandy? I told her not to take that little statue thing. You know, the Pisa tower? But she said nobody would notice, and if we’re gonna get into trouble, I’ll totally make her put it back.”

“It’s not about the statue either. You were taking photos by the sign outside, and—”

“That freaking camera! The guy said it was legit, I swear. Like, he got two the same as Christmas gifts and that was the only reason he was selling one.”

Women tended to overshare with me. An ex-colleague once told me it was my tone of voice. Made people want to spill all their secrets. Sometimes, that worked to my advantage. Other times? Not so much.

“Look, I don’t care about weed or statues or cameras or anything else illegal or borderline illegal you may or may not have done. A girl got abducted, and we think you and your friends may have accidentally taken a photo of the kidnapper’s car as it drove past.”

Silence. Had I been too snappy?

Then, “Kidnapped? For real?”

“Yes, Brittney. For real.”

“What car? Do you want me to look?”

“Is there any way you could just email me the pictures?”

“There’s, like, a zillion of them. And my friends have more. Shall I call them up and get them to send all the pictures to me, and you can come to my place and look at them on the computer?”

The last thing I wanted to do was go to Brittney’s apartment. At least on the phone, I could hang up in an emergency. But I’d almost used up my data allowance for the month, and even with the advance from Kimberly, money was tight.

“Okay, can you give me your address?” Better to ask, even though I already knew it.

“You sound young for a private investigator.”

“I’m thirty years old, ma’am, but I assure you I have enough experience to do my job.”

“Do you wear a uniform?”

“Not since I was a cop.”

“A cop? Wow. How about handcuffs? Do you carry handcuffs?”

“Brittney, I’ll need your address if I’m going to visit.”

“Oh, sure, sure.” She rattled it off, and I jotted it on an empty coffee cup to be on the safe side.

“Tomorrow night?” she suggested. “Eight o’clock. I can get the photos together by then, and I have dance practice this evening.”

“Perfect.”

That gave me enough time to buy a gag and come up with a suitable excuse to get out of there once I’d seen all I needed to.

***

With little more I could do until the next day, I headed to the gym. I spent a lot of time there even though I couldn’t afford a full membership anymore. Today, a big lunch had given me more energy, and a workout always took the edge off my stress levels.

Raise the Bar occupied one half of an old warehouse on the outskirts of town. The other half held a body shop and carwash, so you could get your car detailed while you lifted. The gym was a no-frills kind of a place. No fancy workout classes, no jacuzzi, no juice bar. Not even any carpet. Just sweat and a whole lot of iron. That suited me fine—I preferred to run outside for my cardio fix. It let me keep up with the city.

But going to the gym gave me company, and I didn’t get much of that now I’d left the force. Unless they needed a favour, most of my former colleagues steered clear since I didn’t carry a badge anymore, and the guys on the street who knew I’d once been a cop avoided me as well. At Raise the Bar, all I had to do to fit in was bench-press two-hundred pounds, and that was easy.

Want to hear a secret? Even tough guys get lonely sometimes.

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