expression had an obnoxious “told-you-so” tinge to it that made me want to lie. But I knew there was no point. Bailey was not only a top-notch detective in the elite Robbery-Homicide Division of LAPD, she was also one of my very best friends. She would see right through it. Still, I didn’t have to give it up all at once.
I gave a noncommittal shrug, hung my purse on the hook under the bar, and slid onto the cushy leather stool. “It went okay.”
It was ten o’clock on a Monday night, so the after-work crowd had largely cleared out of the Biltmore Hotel bar. The only exception was a well-dressed middle-aged couple on one of the velvety couches against the wall. They were enjoying Manhattans with a leisurely attitude that told me they didn’t have to worry about a morning commute. Though I didn’t recognize them, I guessed they were staying in the hotel. Being a permanent resident of the hotel myself, I could usually tell who was a guest and who had just dropped by for a drink.
Drew, the gorgeous bartender, who’d been my buddy ever since I’d moved into the Biltmore a few years ago, gave me a knowing smirk. “Just okay? I don’t think so.” He tilted his shining black head toward the mirror behind him. “Take a look at yourself, girl.”
Even in the dim light I could see the sappy expression on my face. Damn. Drew and Bailey exchanged an amused smile. They’d been together for about two years now-the longest stretch either of them had ever managed with a single partner. Most of the time, it was a beautiful thing. But there were stomach-turning moments like this, when their “oneness” made me want to bang their heads together. Hard.
Bailey turned back just in time to catch my nauseated look-and ignore it. “And in case you were worried, you’re not alone out there. Graden was actually whistling.” Bailey made a face. “All day.”
Since Lieutenant Graden Hales was Bailey’s boss, she knew he never whistled. But I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing how good it made me feel. I looked at her, deadpan. “Funny how annoying little things like that can be.”
“Isn’t it?” Bailey deadpanned right back at me.
Graden and I met a couple of years ago when he worked the case of Jake Pahlmeyer, a dear friend and fellow Special Trials Unit prosecutor, who was found dead in a sleazy downtown motel room, not far from the Biltmore. We’d begun dating, and I was just starting to believe Graden and I would go the distance when we had a major blowout over a violation of privacy; specifically, his violation of my privacy. He’d done some digging, otherwise known as “Googling” me, and found out that my sister Romy had been kidnapped when she was eleven years old. And was still missing.
