I’m here when you’re ready. What do you two want? I’ve gotta hit the head. I’ll pick up food on the way back.”
“Coffee and an industrial size french fry,” Westen said, the same time Smith said, “Burger with the works, fries and a strawberry shake.”
Smith frowned. “Why don’t you get a sandwich or a burger? You never know when we’ll have time to eat again.”
“I’m having exactly what I want, thank you very much.” Westen leaned against the cushion. Maybe she should have Ryan take her to the airport for a swift return flight to unpaid bills and employees with mysterious and sure-to-be-depressing questions. At least there the conflict came from legitimate sources. It was all up-front, in your face.
Smith got out of the car and climbed into the back passenger seat. Must be time for some up-close-and-personal conflict. It’d been a long, long time since Westen had been involved in fisticuffs. Maybe it would be wise to advise Smith that she didn’t go in for hair pulling or pinching. All-out punches—that was how to handle an opponent.
Smith gazed around the parking lot for a moment. Apparently she didn’t see anything suspicious because she busied herself biting her nails and spitting pieces on the floor. She finished the right thumbnail and finally made eye contact.
Westen took the offered opening. “Do you really think the thieves are still hanging around Chicago, or did you say that to make me angry?”
“Why would I want to—”
The arrival of Ryan with their food cut off Smith’s response. He knelt on the front seat doling the appropriate cups and bags over the seat. Westen could tell from his expression he was still amused at the interaction between them.
If Smith wasn’t trying to make her mad, then what was the animosity about? She thought back over their day. So far, she’d climbed on a truck, she’d inspected and measured the truck, and she’d done mostly all the questioning.
Westen inhaled to the count of ten. Start over. Clean slate. She drew the container of fries from the bag, punched the bag flat—putting a bit of emphasis on the punching to make a point with her partner—then set the fries on the squashed bag. She dropped the coffee into the cup holder.
“From the comment you made about the drivers, I assume you have a theory about the theft.”
“Why would you—”
Westen held up a hand. “Just stop. Talk to me. Tell me why you’re on the defensive like this.”
Smith swallowed the bite of hamburger and swallowed on a sigh. “I’m sorry.”
For what?
“I—”
I what?
“I can’t—”
Oh gosh, another person who adds one word at a time. This time, Westen wasn’t helping out. She concentrated on doctoring her coffee with tiny containers of creamer. She dug through the conglomeration of sugar packets Ryan had brought and found a brown one containing raw sugar.
“I can’t go—”
Westen made eye contact. Smith had removed the glasses, a rarity. She had nice eyes, very dark brown, almost black. She had thick lashes and wore no makeup.
“All right. I’m scared of heights. Are you happy now?”
Westen ignored the bark of laughter from the front seat and set her cup in the holder. “Why couldn’t you just say that? What’s the big deal?”
She ate three fries while waiting for Smith to spit out the answer to the question.
It finally came. “It’s a weakness.”
Now Westen saw the big picture. Acrophobia. A simple fear of heights had spurred this level of emotion in a woman who’d so far seemed to have a will of steel. Cool.
Chapter Thirteen
Ryan stopped the car in front of a duplex on the outskirts of Chicago. It had been recently painted but sported an old front door and antique storm windows—the kind that swung out and propped open with a long metal rod. Westen pulled the door handle. “You coming in?” Westen asked Ryan as she opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.
“I think he’d better stay here and make sure
“Coffee and an industrial size french fry,” Westen said, the same time Smith said, “Burger with the works, fries and a strawberry shake.”
Smith frowned. “Why don’t you get a sandwich or a burger? You never know when we’ll have time to eat again.”
“I’m having exactly what I want, thank you very much.” Westen leaned against the cushion. Maybe she should have Ryan take her to the airport for a swift return flight to unpaid bills and employees with mysterious and sure-to-be-depressing questions. At least there the conflict came from legitimate sources. It was all up-front, in your face.
Smith got out of the car and climbed into the back passenger seat. Must be time for some up-close-and-personal conflict. It’d been a long, long time since Westen had been involved in fisticuffs. Maybe it would be wise to advise Smith that she didn’t go in for hair pulling or pinching. All-out punches—that was how to handle an opponent.
Smith gazed around the parking lot for a moment. Apparently she didn’t see anything suspicious because she busied herself biting her nails and spitting pieces on the floor. She finished the right thumbnail and finally made eye contact.
Westen took the offered opening. “Do you really think the thieves are still hanging around Chicago, or did you say that to make me angry?”
“Why would I want to—”
The arrival of Ryan with their food cut off Smith’s response. He knelt on the front seat doling the appropriate cups and bags over the seat. Westen could tell from his expression he was still amused at the interaction between them.
If Smith wasn’t trying to make her mad, then what was the animosity about? She thought back over their day. So far, she’d climbed on a truck, she’d inspected and measured the truck, and she’d done mostly all the questioning.
Westen inhaled to the count of ten. Start over. Clean slate. She drew the container of fries from the bag, punched the bag flat—putting a bit of emphasis on the punching to make a point with her partner—then set the fries on the squashed bag. She dropped the coffee into the cup holder.
“From the comment you made about the drivers, I assume you have a theory about the theft.”
“Why would you—”
Westen held up a hand. “Just stop. Talk to me. Tell me why you’re on the defensive like this.”
Smith swallowed the bite of hamburger and swallowed on a sigh. “I’m sorry.”
For what?
“I—”
I what?
“I can’t—”
Oh gosh, another person who adds one word at a time. This time, Westen wasn’t helping out. She concentrated on doctoring her coffee with tiny containers of creamer. She dug through the conglomeration of sugar packets Ryan had brought and found a brown one containing raw sugar.
“I can’t go—”
Westen made eye contact. Smith had removed the glasses, a rarity. She had nice eyes, very dark brown, almost black. She had thick lashes and wore no makeup.
“All right. I’m scared of heights. Are you happy now?”
Westen ignored the bark of laughter from the front seat and set her cup in the holder. “Why couldn’t you just say that? What’s the big deal?”
She ate three fries while waiting for Smith to spit out the answer to the question.
It finally came. “It’s a weakness.”
Now Westen saw the big picture. Acrophobia. A simple fear of heights had spurred this level of emotion in a woman who’d so far seemed to have a will of steel. Cool.
Chapter Thirteen
Ryan stopped the car in front of a duplex on the outskirts of Chicago. It had been recently painted but sported an old front door and antique storm windows—the kind that swung out and propped open with a long metal rod. Westen pulled the door handle. “You coming in?” Westen asked Ryan as she opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.
“I think he’d better stay here and make sure
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