Split Second - Catherine Coulter [83]
When she headed back toward the bar, a guy tried to pull her into a dance. She pressed lightly on the nerve at his wrist, and he yipped and backed off.
Hey, Kirsten, you finished spiking my beer? I hope Ruth got a lovely pic of you doing it.
Sherlock felt her blood hum. She was so revved she felt ready to leap off a tall building and fly.
Time to play this out now.
CHAPTER 41
Sherlock squeezed in next to Kirsten at the bar. Kirsten was still standing, guarding both her beer and her bar stool. Sherlock couldn’t help it, she gave a quick look at her new glass of Texas Espresso. Would she have to pretend to drink it? She felt Bruce Comafield’s eyes, knew he was watching her. She’d considered dumping the drugged beer on the floor beside her, but she gave that idea up, what with both of them watching her.
Kirsten clicked her glass to Sherlock’s. “Hear, hear, Suzzie, drink up.”
He’s watching; he’s watching to see what I’ll do. She didn’t want to drink it, didn’t want to, but she drew in a deep breath and took a small sip, then another. She didn’t taste anything different, but she knew bad things were about to happen to her. A guy accidentally hit her arm, and she knew she could have let him knock the glass out of her hand, but what would be the point? She took another small sip.
Kirsten was so close to her now Sherlock could smell her perfume. She smelled like violets. “You know,” Kirsten said, “I was thinking about moving. I’m getting real tired of Baltimore. Where do you live?”
“Two blocks over, off the Inner Harbor.”
“What do you do to keep yourself in gold hoops?” She flicked a finger over one of Sherlock’s earrings.
Sherlock forced herself to take another sip of beer. “I own one of those kitschy little tourist shops in the mall. I’ve got a great view of the boats in the harbor. It’s kind of fun. You?”
“I live only a block away, in that big high-rise off Calvert. Cheap jerks, they haven’t replaced the doorman yet, and he left four months ago. You got security?”
She saw Kirsten was eyeing her drugged beer, saw Bruce Comafield was watching her, and forced herself to drink some more. “No, I haven’t got any security, either. What do you do for a living, Stephani?” Her words slurred a bit, and Sherlock was surprised at how fast the drug was acting, and she’d only drunk a little.
“I was selling art over in the Calliope Gallery. Do you know the place? Most of the paintings are dark, with old barns and graveyards and fluttering ghosts, you know, an Edgar Allan Poe theme, but that didn’t work out.”
“How come?”
Kirsten laughed. “I kept shooting all the freaking ravens off the tombstones. No, I’m kidding. I didn’t like my boss. Now I’m currently assessing my employment situation, since my money’s running pretty low. What do you think? Could I be an artist’s model?” And even in the tight space, Kirsten managed to strike a professional pose.
“If I were an artist, I’d hire you in a minute.”
Sherlock knew her words were frankly slurred now. She knew it was time to get moving, time to rock and roll out of the bar to Dillon waiting outside, before she fell over and puked all over her beautiful black heels.
She slid off the bar stool, staggered a bit, and grabbed the edge of the bar, none of it an act. She hated it, wished she’d managed to figure out how to dump the beer and fake the rest. She felt nausea pumping in her belly, felt her brain clouding over. “What’s this? Three of these wonking Texas Espressos and I’m about ready to fall over?”
“They’re pretty strong. How about I help you home, Suzzie Q? No, it’s okay, you’re on my way. Hey, what about your skunk-brained ex-boyfriend? Do you think he’ll be waiting for you?”
“That fat-fried jerk? He’ll only show up to leave my car. He knows he’d better, or I’ll call the cops on him.”
Sherlock tried to take a step, slammed into a knot of people. Kirsten grabbed