The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [35]
Whatever that meant.
Roelke stepped inside. The taproom was crowded with Eagle residents and Old World interpreters, all relaxing at the end of the day with a cold one and, perhaps, a basket of fish and fries or a burger. Roelke caught the owner’s eye and nodded—the man had a good relationship with the local cops. He ran a clean place.
Tonight looked much like any other evening. Roelke was pulling a double shift, so he’d be just as happy if things stayed quiet. He strolled through the crowd, Seeing and Being Seen. He asked for one kid’s ID, and the young man triumphantly proved that he was, indeed, legal. Barely, but that still counted.
“Happy birthday,” Roelke said. “You’re not going to ruin your night by driving home, are you?”
“Nope,” the kid said. “I’m drinking. He—” he pointed to his friend, who was nursing a fizzing soda—“is driving.”
Roelke grinned. “Have a good evening, then.”
He made a looping saunter through the crowd. No sign of anyone drinking to excess. No sign of anything problematic at all.
Then, just as he was turning to wind his way back to the door, he caught a glimpse of someone pressed against the wall. Something in Roelke’s chest hitched, like a knot being tightened. Chloe’s back was to him, but Roelke recognized that waterfall of blonde hair, the slope of her shoulders, the thin fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. He changed course.
Chloe’s companion was a stranger, a wiry man with light brown hair, a narrow nose, and a focused gaze that didn’t leave Chloe’s face even when he drank from a stein of dark beer. As Roelke approached the man said something inaudible. Chloe laughed, a rippling peal that seemed to come from some deep, joyful place inside.
Damn it. Roelke stopped behind Chloe. If he wasn’t on duty he might have put a hand on her shoulder. But he was, so he didn’t.
The stranger saw him first. A look of surprise chased the good humor from his face. “Yes, officer?” he asked politely. He had a slight German accent. “Suisse-Deutsch,” Chloe had once corrected him.
Whatever the hell that meant. Roelke spoke with equal politeness. “Good evening.”
Chloe whirled. “Roelke! I—um—are you on duty?”
“I’m not in the habit of socializing in uniform.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Um … Roelke, this is Markus Meili. Markus, this is my friend Roelke McKenna. He works for the Eagle Police Department.”
Meili offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” His tone was still cordial, but his eyes narrowed, clearly assessing.
“Likewise,” Roelke lied, doing some hard assessing of his own. So. This was the Swiss ex. Chloe had gone from ‘I don’t know if I’m even going to see him’ to ‘Oh, Alpine Boy, that’s so funny’ at lightning speed.
“We were just … that is, Markus wanted to see Old World,” Chloe said. “I introduced him to the historic farmer and then we, um … we decided to—you know. Stop for a bite.”
Roelke waited a beat, letting the silence become uncomfortable. Then he said, “Have a pleasant evening,” in his best cop voice, the one he pulled from his back pocket when people were acting like assholes, and walked away.
_____
“Is that the guy?” Markus asked.
Chloe commanded her fingers to loosen their death grip on the wine glass. “What guy?”
“The ‘maybe’ guy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I know you, Chloe.” Markus sighed. “Look, we should at least be honest with each other.”
Damn the man, Chloe thought. She considered demurring again—what Roelke McKenna did or did not mean to her was none of her ex’s business—but decided that she’d only sound petulant. “Yeah,” she said finally. “That’s the guy.”
“A policeman?” Markus asked, almost to himself. He looked utterly perplexed.
Chloe drained her wine, leaned over, and deposited the glass on the bar. “I gotta go.”
They said good-bye