“Yep, I’m a girl, and thanks. Nope, never picked up that nasty habit. Hey, best thing about me is I’m all alone tonight. My guy kissed me off when my best friend stuck her hand down his pants and turned the key. The bitch.”

Sherlock raised her empty beer glass. “Here’s to the bitches of the world. May they join the bankers and the lawyers at the bottom of the ocean.”

Kirsten laughed, leaned close, since the noise level had notched up even higher. So many people—too many, Sherlock thought, for much chance of taking Kirsten down without anyone getting hurt. Kirsten said, “Hey, what about ratty guys? Wait a sec.” She called to the bartender and asked for two beers.

Sherlock frowned up at her. “You want to buy me a beer?”

Kirsten laughed, waved that away with a very white hand, long, thin fingers and short, blunt nails. There was a big silver ring on her right hand. And the same ring on her left hand. “Hey, I’m not into girls. I wasn’t lying about the boyfriend. I’m lonely. I figure one always has to pay for companionship, right?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been lonely until tonight. My ex-boyfriend, the chigger-brained moron, stole my car.”

“What’s a chigger?”

“You know, one of those nasty little spider things, bite you in tall grass in the summer.”

“Why’d he do that?”

Trisha set the two beers in front of them, shoved over another bowl of peanuts. She gave Kirsten an appraising look before she bounded away to fill half a dozen more orders. The jukebox music was tuned really loud now, and voices shouted above the music. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if they heard glass breaking soon. She took a lip-taste of the beer. “He took my car because the squatbrained dip likes my blue Corvette better than he likes that wimpbutt little white Miata of his. He said he was feeling insecure and figured the Corvette would impress his mama. Like I believed that. More like a dog-haired bimbo. Hey, thanks for the beer. Here’s to all the tarts that my rutting goat of a boyfriend sleeps with; may they swim with the seaweed.”

The two women clicked beer glasses and drank.

Kirsten tapped her fingers lightly against her glass, leaned close when someone bumped her, and gave the guy a killing look. “Hey, my name’s Stephani—that’s with an i at the end. My mom lost it there for a while, I guess, what with all the drugs they pumped into her. I was a C-section, as she told me every single day until I managed to get away from her the morning of my eighteenth birthday. Geez, nearly ten years ago next week.” She fell silent a moment, looking into the depths of her beer.

Sherlock thought, Why would you lie about your age when it doesn’t matter? She hoped the agent listening to them could hear Kirsten clearly in this noise.

Kirsten took another small taste of beer.

So you want to keep your mind clear so you can kill me with no muss or fuss.

Kirsten asked, “What’s your name?”

Sherlock waggled her eyebrows. “Suzzie. With two z’s.”

Kirsten grinned, showing straight white teeth.

Sherlock said, “I guess my mama kind of lost it, too. I sure wouldn’t want to have a C-section.” She looked briefly toward where she knew Dane Carver and Ruth were sitting in a side booth, but she couldn’t see them through the crowd. Then she finally met Dane’s eyes. He nodded toward a young man at the far end of the bar. Sherlock looked at the guy, then away. A minute later, she searched his face again, then stopped, didn’t want to overdo. Did Dane think this guy was Comafield? The guy was young, sported a sad attempt at a goatee and a shaved head. He wore a nerdy tweed jacket with chinos, and thick black-rimmed glasses, not aviators. Could be him, could be. If it was, it was a good disguise. He was by himself, nursing what looked like straight vodka but was probably water. When he finally raised his head and turned to look at the jukebox, Sherlock’s blood ran cold. It was Bruce Comafield.

That bald head got you past Dillon. I’ll bet you even wove yourself into a crowd, used them as camouflage. Smart boy.

To be honest, she wouldn’t have recognized him if Dane hadn’t nodded toward him. One thing she knew for sure—Dillon wouldn’t ever take the chance of coming in here to take Kirsten down; no way would he risk a shoot-out in the bar. Too many innocent people, and who knew if Kirsten or Comafield carried guns along with the wire tucked inside Kirsten’s pocket? No, Dillon would take her down when she came outside with Sherlock weaving around like a drunk. But there were so many people, all of them talking, drinking, dancing, strolling in and out of the bar, always new people coming in. What if she pulled out her SIG and stuck it against Kirsten’s ribs and simply walked her outside? She could manage that, but there sat Bruce Comafield, and he was the wild card in the mix. Still, if push came to shove, she knew she could take Kirsten easily, and she’d said so to Dillon. Too bad he’d placed his hands on her shoulders and said, “This is boss to subordinate, kiddo, a direct order, so pay attention. If by any wild chance you get close to her, you do not try to take her by yourself, do you understand me?”