Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [109]
Claire had dated more than a dozen guys, more or less seriously, over the years, but it never hurt—physically hurt—when they split. Nothing like this.
She almost wished she could cry over it again, but the tears had dried up last night.
Taking another deep breath, she got out of Bill’s truck. Time to focus on what was most important right now: proving her father’s innocence. She double-checked the Kahr P40 she had strapped in her ankle holster. She opted to leave her blazer in the truck, knowing full well that men were more forthcoming with information if you gave them something to look at. Anyway, her blazer made her look too much like a cop or a PI. She unbuttoned one of the buttons of her black shirt, just enough so her lacy pink bra could be seen if she turned the right way.
She retrieved her Taser C2 from her tactical bag in the back. She loved the new design—she’d bought the metallic pink version—as well as the intense voltage in a compact six inches. She could hit someone up to fifteen feet away. If Claire were being attacked, she’d rather take them down safely without having to touch or shoot them.
She stuffed it in her small purse, an image of hitting Mitch Bianchi below the belt with the two electric probes making her smile. Zap!
Much better. Focus on the anger, not the pain. Toughen up.
Claire surveyed the building. The Rabbit Hole was not much of anything to look at, but then again, at night Isleton pretty much rolled up the sidewalks unless it was their annual summer Crawdad Festival.
Downtown Isleton was quaint with restored buildings, a few gift stores, an old-fashioned ice cream “shoppe,” and a video arcade. A must, Claire thought, for a small town. A sporting goods store took up half the block across from the Rabbit Hole. No surprise there, fishing and boating were big here in the delta.
Though it was the middle of the day, there was little sign of life on the street. Three young teens were walking around with nothing to do. A mother with two young children exited the ice cream shoppe. There were no windows in the bar, but a red neon sign declared they were OPEN.
She crossed the street and walked in. The bar was a third full—almost all of the men over sixty—and the music greeted her warmly. She didn’t particularly like country music, but it fit the atmosphere, and the sound was definitely more pop-country than the soulful my-dog-died-and-my-wife-ran-away-with-the-sheriff ballads. Two men played chess in one corner, and a larger table had a quarter poker game going on.
“Hey, Tip!” one of the old guys at the bar shouted loud enough for her to hear, “you’re really bringing in the lookers with that snazzy new sign you put up.”
Claire had seen the sign—it looked neither snazzy nor new—but she turned her attention to the bar.
“Told you it would help,” a man behind the bar said. Claire couldn’t see him behind the heads of the patrons. She approached and sat on an empty stool next to a man who wore a military hat from WWII with SANDERSON sewn on the edge. He looked old enough to have fought nearly seventy years ago.
“Told you classy chicks like men in uniform,” Sanderson said. “I’d buy you a drink, sweet thing, but my military pension only covers two drafts a day and I’m already on my third.” He laughed at his joke.
She smiled. She liked this place. It had a good feeling about it, small-town folks of modest means coming together for a beer to keep each other from getting too lonely. She’d bet every one of the five men sitting at the bar was a widower.
Claire smiled at the bartender. He wasn’t exactly what