Hours of pouring over the statements from the members of the Second Time Around club made one fact abundantly clear: No one agreed on what the club was supposed to be. Oh, each member had a firm idea of the club's mission and practices. Put together, though, and the only cohesive picture Hanson got was that old image of three children standing on each other with a trench coat on, pretending to be one big person. Or, one big club, as it happened — with at least five children involved in the charade — and, possibly, a less conspicuous article of clothing than a trench coat.
The club appeared to be an administrative and organizational disaster, with no agreement about who was in charge, what the meetings were supposed to accomplish, or who the membership counted. As far as anyone knew, it had always been like that.
Flipping his thumb back over the stack of folders, Hanson thought about the variety of stories contained within. The only conclusion he could reach was that he'd stumbled into a deliberate cover up, which meant that the ipolice/i interviews weren't going to find any useful information.
This was why he'd been sent undercover, of course. People, as a rule, didn't like to talk to the police. And people, as a rule, could be counted on to edit what they told the police in whatever way made them look most innocent of wrongdoing, real or imagined. Yet his instincts told him that what was going on here needed special attention. He gnawed his lower lip for a minute, internally debating his next step.
Then he picked up the phone and made a date.
The next night, he put the boys to bed. then told Karen where he was going and what time he expected to return home. With the hard-earned wisdom of a woman who'd been a detective's wife for a significant portion of her adult years, she met his announcement with only: "At least change your clothes before you go. That golf shirt my parents gave you for Christmas is on the top shelf of the closet, and for God's sake, put on a pair of jeans. Bottom drawer of your dresser. The way you're dressed now, you look like you were sent from Central Casting to play the role of Detective #1. You want me to make you a cup of coffee?; it's getting late."
Moments like these, he was reminded all over again why he loved her.
Clancy's was a lot quieter without the club in attendance. He saw only a half dozen people scattered around the booths and tables, and was surprised to see that many. The same music from the previous night played over the speakers. As always, it was too loud. Who needed their music that loud? He'd like to keep what was left of his hearing, thank you. No one else was at the bar, so he grabbed one of the seats and ordered a beer while he waited for Miranda to arrive.
A couple beers later and Hanson's thoughts were still far from being organized enough for the kind of police work needed if he was going to get the answers he sought without blowing his cover. There were too many balls in the air. In the space of a handful of breaths, he caught himself mulling over what he'd learned about the Second Time group, trying to work out who was threatening them and whether the deaths were accidents, escalations, targeted, or circumstantial. Throw in the other case with people getting stabbed and beheaded, and he was starting to feel that someone out there in the universe was laughing at him. Henry's reactions to the case didn't help; it was like he knew more than he was letting on. Hanson recognized that Henry had remarkable observational skills. He also knew everything about everything and loved to share that knowledge. For Henry to have been at the recent crime scenes, and not pointing out minute details like any idiot should be aware of them, was decidedly suspicious.
And then there was the conversation he'd overheard at Jensen's place. iHad/i he heard anything suspicious, or was he just primed to think he had because of everything else going on.
A waft of cold air brushed Hanson's cheek as the front door opened. He debated changing seats so that he wouldn't be subjected to that all night, then decided that moving was too much effort. He looked at the new arrival, half-convinced that it would be Henry—think about someone hard enough and he was bound to show up, right?
Instead he got more proof that the universe was an unfair and fickle place. The person who walked through the door was someone he never thought he'd see again—had hoped to never see again: The man who had wasted his afternoon by refusing to be interrogated about his involvement in a liquor store robbery. He was once again wearing that damned long coat, and Hanson just iknew/i that a sword was concealed inside its folds. Was it worth arresting him again? Not tonight, he decided. He was on a different case tonight. Hanson dragged his attention back to his beer and hunched his shoulders up, seeking to hide in the semi-darkness of the bar.
The effort failed. The pop rock tune playing over the bar's speakers covered any sounds of approach, but nothing could disguise the heat of an uninvited person drawing up close.
"Detective." The man's voice was smooth and deep, carrying the accent that had reminded him of Henry.
With a a start, Hanson recognized it as the second speaker in Richard Jensen's apartment. No wonder it had seemed so familiar at the station, despite the different accent that had been used then.
How did this guy manage to be everywhere? iWhy/i was he everywhere? Hanson looked up into a thin, sharp featured face that appeared somehow younger than he remembered. "Mike," he corrected. As much as he didn't want to invite familiarity, he couldn't have this man bandying about his title like that. "It's Adamson, right?"
"Matt."
iLike hell it is,/i Hanson thought, though how he knew that he couldn't say. So he didn't say anything.
With a sweeping glance, Adamson took in Hanson's untucked shirt, absent tie, and temporarily naked ring finger. What conclusions he came to, he also didn't share. "I can't say I expected to you here."
"I could say the same. Please tell me this isn't your bar-of-choice."
"It's not." Adamson said; his attention left his appraisal of Hanson long enough to take in the dark-stained wood walls and the pictures and memorabilia that provided the décor. Amusement suddenly twinkled in his eyes. "Though, I am in need of a watering hole in this city and this place is not without its charm."
"I saw it first," Hanson said. He wrapped his hands around his latest beer so that he wouldn't wrap them around Adamson's neck; something about this guy really rubbed him the wrong way. "What are you doing here, and how soon until you plan to go away?"
Adamson smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. In his life, Hanson had met a mere handful of people he didn't like on sight, and he'd never had time-spent prove that his initial reaction was unfounded. It was much rarer that he'd been on the receiving end of that sentiment. "That's really not your business, is it?" A second later, Adamson's whole expression smoothed, the antagonism slipping away like responsibility off a politician's shoulders. "If you must know, I'm looking for someone."
Hanson was on the verge of pointing out that Adamson's friend wasn't here. Only the fact that he'd paused to take a swig of his beer gave his slightly scattered brain the time to remember that he wasn't supposed to know that Adamson knew the kid he'd seen talking to Henry. His eyes narrowed as he recalled Adamson demanding to speak to Henry in the interrogation. Six degrees of Henry Morgan. Henry had a track record for landing himself in bizarre, and frequently dangerous, situations. What had he gotten himself involved in this time? "Anyone in particular?" Hanson managed to ask.
Adamson was saved from answering when a new body plastered herself to Hanson's other side. "Mikey!" Miranda crowed. "I'm so sorry I'm late; I got held up at work. You wouldn't ibelieve/i the kind of day I've had." She was drunk. Her hazel eyes were glassy and twin splotches of red marred her cheeks. She was also very loud. Hanson rolled his eyes at Adamson, who wrinkled his back, in silent communication about how unlikely it was that Miranda had just come from any place of employment.
Hanson hadn't been called Mikey since he graduated to grades with numbers, and he wasn't about to backtrack on that now. "Mike," he corrected. Hearing his first name come out of his mouth for the second time in only a few minutes was odd, and if he'd been alone he would have taken some time to ponder that. Of course, if he'd been alone, he wouldn't have been saying his first name. He shot a warning glance at Adamson, hoping that the man would know not to do anything to give away his title—not that Hanson had any reason to trust him to read the signal, or to respect it.
"So this is what you've been keeping from us, iMiiiike/i" Miranda said with a final chuckle after his name as if she found it funny. The scent of bourbon wafted off her breath. She draped one arm across Hanson's shoulder while she held out the other hand for Adamson to shake. "I'm Miranda Gerring."
Adamson appraised her, took in Hanson's futile effort to stay as far away from her arm as possible, then grabbed her hand and shook it like a snowglobe. "Charles Oldman. It's great to meet you. Really great. Any friend of Mikey's, you know." In between the first syllable and the second, his accent shifted. Instead of sounding like Henry, he now sounded like Hanson, native born New Yorker, full of hard r's and broad vowels.
Hanson could only blink at the smoothness of the switch: accent, demeanor, name. If he hadn't thought the man was dangerous before, he did now. Only experienced actors, or con artists, could make transitions like that. Just his luck such a person would have chosen to torture Hanson at a time like this.
"Are you married, Charlie?" Miranda examined Adamson's hand for a hand. On not finding one, her eyes lit up. "Seeing anyone? Long-term relationship?"
Adamson seemed to give the question due consideration before answering slowly, "Not last I checked."
Miranda swatted Hanson's arm. "Why haven't you brought him along to the meeting? You shouldn't be letting someone this gorgeous fly under the radar."
"Meeting?" Adamson's eyebrows went up. The vocabulary of looks he had to share with Hanson also had foul language. "I don't think I'm interested in any meet—"
"It's a singles' group," Hanson interrupted, before Adamson got the idea that Hanson was trying to save his immortal soul, or anything. "The Second Time Around Club." He lifted Miranda's arm off his shoulder and let it drop. "Like the man said, he's not interested." Being flanked by two people who had no business standing so close to him was making his hackles rise. They both needed to take a giant step back. In fact, Adamson could take ten or fifteen giant steps back and out the door and it still wouldn't be enough. Miranda, well she was a different story. Hanson couldn't risk alienating her until he'd finished the case.
"Well, iI'm/i interested," Miranda protested. She picked up a drink the bartender had deposited in front of her and swallowed it back. More bourbon, if Hanson's nose was able to separate out its smell from the fumes that surrounded Miranda. "The only thing is that—" She peered closer at Adamson. "You've gotta, gotta be older than thirty-five. The whole reason the club exists is so that we—" She giggled. "—more experienced people could have a fighting chance on the dating scene. Are you old enough?" Hanson could hear the begging in her tone, and he immediately started to calculate the likelihood that she'd transfer her affections to Adamson. "Hey, can I get a refill over here?"
Adamson gave her a broad wink. "No worries. I've got a young face. It's a curse. This meeting: When is it?" He sounded like he was actually interested. Damn.
"Tuesday nights," Hanson answered.
"Yes, you really should come join us next week. Consider it a ipersonal/i invitation. I've been going off and on since the beginning … years … four … no, five years. Met my last husband there, and I just know that's where I'll meet my next one too." She smiled at Adamson so hard that she lost her balance, and Hanson had to throw an arm around her waist to keep her from tumbling into his lap.
"Tuesday," Adamson repeated, as if Miranda hadn't just propositioned him in front of her date. "So, this isn't the regular crowd?" He once more glanced around at the seated customers. "Either of you happen to know if a waitress named Zoe is working tonight?"
"It's the regular crowd for a Wednesday," Miranda crooned, giggling again as she added, "plus you twoooo." With concerted effort she extracted herself from Hanson's arm, only to plaster herself right back against his side. If the bartender didn't cut her off soon, Hanson was going to. He nudged the latest drink far enough out of her reach that she would hopefully decide the effort to get it was too much. "Zoe's the one with the … the eyebrow … no, the lip piercings, right?" She frowned in thought. "I think it's her … whatcha call it … night off."
Adamson straightened up suddenly, slapping a hand on the bar with an air of finality. "I have to go; I just remembered another obligation I need to attend to. Miranda, thank you for the invitation. Mikey, I'll see you on Tuesday." With a nod at both of them, he turned and left the bar.
Hanson watched him go, pondering what interest the man had in a young woman he obviously had never met before and couldn't identify by sight. Had Zoe and Jensen interacted the other night? Hanson didn't think so. So, what was the connection that had Adamson interested in both of them?
He removed Miranda's hand from his thigh and turned to direct her onto a barstool before she finished falling over. So much for interviewing her tonight. He sighed. "You met your last husband through the club?" he asked, anyway. Miranda had told him she'd only been in the couple a few months, and now she had revealed a different story. What else had she neglected to answer completely?
Miranda thrust out a hand with three fingers extended. "iAnd/i three boyfriends, too. Wanna make it four and five?"
"How about we get you a glass of water?" Hanson said, instead. He tipped his chin at the bartender so that she knew he was talking to her, then helped Miranda guide the much larger glass to her mouth when it arrived. She sputtered at the taste, yet still managed to swallow a good amount.
"I started the club, you know." She took a smaller sip, then spit most of it back into the glass. "Well, me and those two traitors. Hooked up with each other and left me holding the bag."
Hanson's disgust at what she'd done with the water vanished with this piece of information. None of the reports had mentioned it. How, he wondered, had nobody mentioned it? One of the questions asked of everyone was who the founders were, since they were likely targets for the murderer. Yet one more thing Miranda had failed to mention.
"Who knows that you're one of the founders?" he asked, trying to keep the question casual sounding.
She shrugged. "Don't know, don't care." Propping her arms on the edge of the bar, she dropped her head onto the improvised pillow, then mumbled into the center: "'Think I should go to bed."
Hanson had to agree. She was on the verge of passing out, and sinking further by the second. "Let me get you a cab," he suggested.
Blearily, she blinked at him, then smiled in a way that was probably supposed to be coy. "Maybe next time, Sweetie."
"Sure," he agreed, though it was already too late for her to hear the promise he had no intention of keeping. Again, he flagged the bartender down, while pulling his credit card out of his wallet to pay for the ride. While the date hadn't gone at all like he'd expected, no matter how much the cab cost, he'd still come out ahead.