Luck Be a Lady - Cathie Linz [69]
He became quieter and quieter the closer they got to Megan’s condo. So did she.
Finally he had to ask, “You don’t really trust me, do you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You never mention the name of the ass who beat your friend. It’s like you don’t trust me with that much information.”
“It’s not my secret to tell,” she said quietly. “I promised I wouldn’t give that information to anyone. I take my promises seriously. I think you take your promises seriously as well, so you should understand that it’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of honoring my friend’s request.”
He got that now. “Understood,” he said gruffly.
“I know you’re in a hurry, so you can just drop me off in front of the building,” she said. “That will be fine. Or on the corner. I could walk.”
“Not on my watch. I’ll drop you in front of the building because I know you’ve got twenty-four-hour doorman service.”
“Protective much?”
“All the time.”
She leaned over to kiss his cheek. “And who protects you?”
“My mom would say it’s St. Michael the Archangel, the patron saint of police.”
“I hope she’s right.” Megan trailed her fingers down his face before hopping out of his SUV and hurrying inside her building.
How could Logan believe that when St. Michael hadn’t protected Will? He’d removed the silver St. Michael medallion that night and hadn’t put it back on since then.
Logan’s mood was already deteriorating by the time he entered Buddy’s South Side brick bungalow. It got worse when he saw his dad sipping hot coffee at the kitchen table with his grandfather. Billy Doyle had inherited all of his father’s stubbornness and then some. His dark hair had gone gray at the temples, but he had Logan’s blue eyes. Rather, Logan had his dad’s blue eyes. He hoped he hadn’t inherited his problem with alcohol as well.
“I don’t believe this,” Logan said. “You stay sober for five years and now you fall off the wagon? Why?”
“I’m not drunk,” his dad said.
“Yeah, right.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Buddy said.
“You told me he’d fallen off the wagon.”
Buddy shrugged. “I lied.”
Logan narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why?”
“We needed to talk to you,” Buddy said.
Logan didn’t like the sound of that. Not one damn bit. “Your timing sucks,” he said. “I was having a great evening.”
“With Megan?” Buddy guessed.
“What’s so important that you couldn’t wait until morning to talk?”
“You. You’re what’s so important. Pull up a chair. Want some coffee?”
“No. I want an explanation.”
“And you’re about to get one.”
“What is this? Some kind of intervention?” The look on their faces said it all. “Shit.” He turned to walk out, but Buddy stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Sit down, boy-o. It’s time.”
Logan glared at his grandfather but took the chair he offered. “Fine. Give it your best shot. This is about Will, right?”
“It’s about you.”
“So just because I don’t react the way either of you would, that means something is wrong?”
“The fact that you’re having nightmares a year later means something is wrong. The fact that you didn’t cry at Will’s funeral—one of the few times it’s okay for a cop to cry—means something is wrong.”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” Logan said grimly. “The fact that Will is dead. Nothing you say can make that right.”
“You can’t keep holding on to the pain,” his dad said, taking over the role of intervention advocate.
“Sure I can.”
“It will eat you up inside.”
“That something you learned at AA?” Logan said.
“Don’t you be disrespectful of your dad,” Buddy said.
“You don’t think it’s disrespectful to ambush me this way?” Logan retorted.
“What are you afraid of?” Buddy said.
“Snakes. You know I hate snakes.”
“You can joke around all you want, but you’re staying here until you talk about this.”
“About my fear of snakes?”
Buddy glared at him. Logan recognized that look. It was the same one he’d received as a boy when he’d broken a window playing baseball. He’d hung his head and slouched his shoulders a bit without even