Page 40 of Mister St. James

I check my tablet, the feed from the manager’s back office running in a four-screen grid. Each camera is a different vantage: the entrance, the bar, the east alcove, the service corridor. I keep my focus on the bar. The suspect’s profile is up in another window, Hale, Brenden, 32, five-ten, lean build, probable nervous tick in left hand. Last seen in a charcoal button-down at the Starbucks across from Vantage Systems. I have his full resume, his online purchase history, and every access badge he ever used at PDI. What I don’t have is a motive beyond pure spite.

Cat sets her wine down and glances up at the mirror behind the bar. For a second, our eyes meet in the reflection. She does a subtle little tilt of her chin, not enough to register as a signal, but I catch it. She knows I’m watching.

The air in here is hot, not just from the bodies but from the current of anticipation. Cat thrives in this kind of environment, but for me it’s a special torture, all these people, all these hands, all these eyes crawling over her, and I have to do nothing. I have to let her play the part, even if every cell in my body is screaming to take her out of the line of fire.

At minute sixteen, I see him.

It’s not the face because I can’t see his face. It’s the way he moves, the hesitation before entering, the half-second it takes to reorient, the deliberate path along the wall, never exposing his back. He’s wearing a mask, cheap plastic, half-matte and half-gloss, as if he couldn’t decide which side to show. His shirt is charcoal, sleeves rolled, collar open. He’s thinner than I remember, but the walk is the same, too self-conscious, like every step is being recorded.

He doesn’t look at Cat right away. That’s smart. He works his way up the bar, three bodies at a time, scanning the bottles and the staff, never once letting his eyes settle on her for more than a second. But every loop brings him closer. I watch his hands, the way they twitch and fidget, once in his pocket, once at his throat, once tapping a slow pattern on the glass when he orders.

Cat is playing it perfectly. She gives nothing, no sign she’s noticed him, just laughs and drinks and smokes and lets the crowd envelope her. The bartender is in on the play, keeping the wine coming at a controlled drip and never once leaving Cat’s glass empty.

At minute twenty, the suspect is two seats away. I see him look at her reflection in the mirror, then away, then back. His hand goes to his pocket again, a little too deliberate. I key my mic.

“Approach, right side. Target at bar, three o’clock.”

“Copy,” says Team Three. “Do you want intervention?”

“Negative. Observe only.”

The man shifts, gets up, and moves to the empty seat beside Cat. He doesn’t speak right away. Just sits, orders another whiskey, and waits.

I’m so tuned into the moment that the rest of the club vanishes. There’s just the bar, Cat, and the man beside her. My own hands are steady but my breath is shallow. The world distills into microseconds, the spill of her hair over her shoulder, the glint of his watchband, the way the bartender pretends not to listen.

He finally turns to her and says something. I can’t hear it, not from this distance, but Cat’s body language shifts a degree, shoulders relax, hand moves from glass to cigarette, lips part just a hair more. She gives him a glance, then goes back to her wine. He tries again, and the moment I hear him speak the hairs on my neck snap to attention. His voice is lower than I expect, the syllables soft but precise, like he’s trying to teach her a secret handshake. “Nice dress,” he says. “It looks custom.”

Cat lets the line bounce off her, arching her eyebrow in the mirror and replying with a perfectly bland, “Thank you.” Her hand never leaves the wine glass. The other the one I told her to keep free rests open on the obsidian, red nails splayed and ready. From here, I can read her pulse in the vein at her wrist.

He tries again, leaning in just a little. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I’d remember seeing you before.”

This is the dance. She does the “shy but flattered” routine, laughs and looks away, and then glances up with a smaller, more private smile. He mirrors it, angles his torso so that he blocks her from the crowd. If I didn’t know him, I’d almost be impressed. His hands are steady on the bar, but his left thumb taps an irregular triplet, exactly the nervous tick in the profile.

I check the security feed on my tablet. Team Three is watching, but not close enough for physical intervention. I edge up the wall, halfway between shadows and the hot pulse of the dance floor, and focus on the suspect’s hands.

He slides his phone closer to Cat, tilting the screen so only she can see it. She glances down, then lifts her eyes back to the mirror and finds me. Her jaw tightens for a split second, and the signal is clear. This is it.

I push off the wall, pace quickening, eyes never leaving the suspect’s pocket. I’m ten feet away when I see his hand dip, slow and deliberate, to the inside of his jacket.

Then everything stutters, there’s a flicker in the crowd, and I see her, a woman in a black slip dress, full mask, standing up from a barstool two seats down. She’s pale and careful, all liquid movement as she edges closer to Cat’s left, close enough to touch. I hadn’t clocked her before. I feel my blood run cold.

“Second contact, Cat’s left flank,” I murmur into the earpiece. “Possible complication. Possible accomplice.”

Cat’s fingers flex around the wine glass. Her other hand curls into a loose fist on the bar. She’s bracketing herself between them, holding the pose.

The suspect doesn’t see me yet. His focus is absolute, honed in on Cat’s profile. He says something, too low to catch, but whatever it is, it’s not the script. Cat’s smile goes razor-thin, the edges brittle, and I see her pupils flare. She’s rattled. That never happens.

I ditch the pretense, break from the wall, and cross the floor in a direct line. No subtlety. I want him to see me coming.

He does. His head snaps up, and even through the cheap mask I see the recognition. His hand, halfway into his jacket, freezes. The woman in black slips forward, her arm almost around Cat’s shoulder, and I realize they’re boxing her in for a fast exit or a leverage grab.

My chest goes thermonuclear. I cover the last ten feet in three strides, pivoting my body so my right side faces the suspect and my left blocks the woman. I don’t touch him. That would give him an excuse. Instead, I put my hand flat on the bar in front of Cat’s wine, cutting off his direct line to her.

“Step back,” I say. My voice isn’t loud, but it’s the kind of low that triggers fight-or-flight.

He holds my gaze, lip curling like he wants to challenge but knows better. His hand comes out of the jacket, empty.

The woman in black tries to move past my left shoulder, aiming for Cat’s elbow. I step wider, hip-checking her trajectory, and she recoils. Her posture isn’t aggressive, she’s a runner, not a fighter, but her eyes behind the mask are wild.