Page 73 of Breaking Silence

Feeling like an idiot, I snuff out the cigarette. “I don’t.”

“Okay.” He says the word as if he understands. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.

McNarie crosses to the booth and, without looking at me, sets two more Killian’s on the table between us, then slides a shot glass in front of me. Eyeing the shot glass, Rasmussen picks up his beer, tips it at me, and then drinks. “Bottoms up.”

Feeling only slightly self-conscious, I down the shot. On the jukebox Led Zeppelin’s “Down by the Seaside” gives way to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell.” The alcohol chooses that moment to kick in. It makes me feel like a train clattering down rickety tracks, heading toward a ravine without a bridge. That’s when I remember I didn’t eat lunch, or dinner. Undulating waves of warmth wash over my brain. I go with it, but when I look up at the television above the bar, it dips left and right.

“Been here long?” Rasmussen asks.

“Too long, probably.” I smile, hoping it’s not as crooked as it feels.

“Been there, done that.”

I doubt that, too, but I nod. “Any word on the rifle or the Skoal can?”

“Tomasetti thinks we still might hear something today. He’s been on the phone with the lab up there, pushing them pretty hard.”

“I guess that means we probably shouldn’t drink too much.”

He looks at the three spent shot glasses in front of me and chuckles. “Guess that depends on your definition of ‘too much.’”

“Good point.”

He glances at his watch, shrugs. “Getting kind of late anyway. Don’t know if those lab people up there work overtime.”

“They do,” I say. “Especially if Tomasetti is pushing for something he wants.”

“He’s good at pushing, that’s for sure.”

An awkward silence ensues. I look toward the bar. McNarie is drying glasses, frowning at me. I frown back, look down at the bottle of beer in front of me, pick it up and drain it.

“You play pool, Chief?”

I glance at Rasmussen. He’s staring at me intently, the way men do sometimes when they’re thinking there’s a possibility they might get lucky, and I think, Uh-oh. I’ve met him only half a dozen times in the year he’s been sheriff. He’s got a good reputation. Good cop. Honest. Single. He’s attractive, in a boy-next-door kind of way. When I look into his eyes, I don’t see much in the way of baggage. Not like Tomasetti anyway. It’s one of many things that binds us, makes us so compatible. Sometimes I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. It just is.

“I’m not very good at it,” I reply, enunciating each word carefully to keep from slurring them.

“You’re probably better than you think.”

“No, I really suck. Honest.”

Smiling, he nods toward the pool table at the rear. “I’ll bet you ten bucks you can beat me.”

“You could throw the game to win the bet.”

“Twenty bucks, and I promise not to cheat.”

The next thing I know, he’s pulling me from the booth. I’m aware of his hand, large and hot and damp. The crisp, musky smell of his aftershave. My head is spinning like a top. Shit. But I let him haul me to the pool table.

He shoves a cue at me, then proceeds to rack the balls. “You break, Chief.”

Having been a cop in a large metropolitan city, I’ve spent a good bit of time in bars just like this one. I’ve consumed more alcohol than I like to admit. I’ve even played a few games of pool. But it’s one pastime I never mastered. I take a moment to chalk the tip of the cue. Leaning forward, I set my hand on the felt and line up.

“Might help if you do it this way.” Rasmussen comes up beside me, nudges me aside. Bending, he demonstrates. “Like this. Keep your hand steady.”

“Okay.” He steps back, and I imitate him.

“Wait.”