He lifted a shoulder. “Not my problem.”
Making a mental note to ask my therapist how I got myself into these situations and accuse her of sucking at her job because I was clearly not getting better, I said, “Have you put any thought into how it could be done?”
“Not really. Why do you need a wingman?”
“I have to go talk to a notorious crime lord and accuse him of sending men after me and trying to put a hit out on his ex-girlfriend, who is the only witness to a murder he committed.”
“Do I have time to finish my burger?”
“I guess. But why are they called crime lords? Why not crime douche bags? Or crime asswipes? Why do they have to sound so cool?” I glanced up at the marquee. “Oh, your number’s up.”
He scooted out of the booth again. It was kind of charming.
“And hurry up before your food gets cold.”
He turned the corner and flipped me off at the same time. See? Men could multitask. I was so proud of him. Since I sat there with nothing better to do than watch the man in the next booth argue with his ketchup, I summoned Angel. I told him about my latest dilemma, gave him some rather explicit orders, then listened to him curse in Spanish before he asked if he could see me naked. When I said, “Only if you can navigate time and watch my perilous journey through my mother’s birth canal,” he vanished to do my bidding.
“Why me?” Garrett asked when he sat back down with his food.
I took a bite of his burrito. “Wow,” I said, rolling my eyes in ecstasy, “excellent choice. And why you what?”
“Why not get your boyfriend to be your wingman?”
“He’s cooking this afternoon. Sammy had to go get his cast off.” The regular cook had broken his leg trying to ski off his roof. Tequila often gave people the desire to tackle the impossible. It did not, however, make the impossible possible.
“Who’s the crime lord?”
“Phillip Brinkman.”
“The car salesman? He’s a crime lord?”
“Apparently.” I stopped and gaped at him. “Did you just take a bite of your sweet roll?”
“I paid for it.”
“And?” I took the plate and slid it out of his reach. Not really, though, because he had a ridiculous reach, which he demonstrated when he stole another bite with effortless ease. Thankfully, their sweet rolls were big enough to feed a small country.
“If Mr. Car Salesman of the Year was going to send men to my apartment carrying suppressed Glocks, the least he can do is offer me a discount on a new Porsche.”
“Should we, I don’t know, devise a plan?”
“Do you think that’s wise? I’ve always just kind of winged it.”
“No,” he said, his faux surprise chafing.
* * *
I strolled into the dealership wearing the wire Garrett had pinned to my bra between Danger and Will. Thankfully, Reyes never had to know that little fact. After pretending to browse a few minutes, and turning down a very enthusiastic salesperson, I made my way back to Phillip Brinkman’s office. The man was facing murder charges, and yet there he was at work, nary a care in the world. He was a cool one. And he looked about as much like a crime lord as my great-aunt Lillian. He looked more like an accountant with dark hair, pale skin, and eyes too large for his face.
I took a seat across from his desk. He looked up from his paperwork, a little startled. No, that was fear in his eyes. A lot startled. He’d either had too much coffee or he was expecting someone else.
He scanned the area past his office then asked, “May I help you with something?”
“You may. If you’re going to send men in black masks to my apartment and have them point a gun at my head so I’ll find your girlfriend, I suggest you pick better men.”
I’d confused him. The fear was still there, but I’d definitely confused him. Damn it. He had no idea what I was talking about.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
Back to square one. Then again, this guy was up for murder. And the men in masks wanted the whereabouts of the woman set to testify against him. That was a little more than a thin connection.
I frowned at him. Maybe if the cops had a body, it would help their case.
I leaned forward, and a wave of fear washed through him. His poker face was worse than mine. His too-large eyes rounded exponentially. “Where’s the body, Brinkman?”
“Are you a cop?”
“Depends. Would you be more likely to tell me where the body was if I were?”
“No.”
“Nope. I am not a cop. Not even a little. Now, where’s the body?”
“They’re looking for Emily?”