It was another cold, dark night in the city that never sleeps, and Freddie Kingston asked for another drink like withered flowers ask for rain; Meg almost felt a pang of sympathy, but she shook her head–no detective worth her salt should be distracted on the job by a prime suspect.
No matter how much she wanted to let herself be.
And anyway, Meg didn’t see how Freddie could possibly be the mob boss- she was clearly in deep, based on the fact that she was in this particular bar, passing information to the shady bespectacled man who mixed all the drinks, but the girl had absolutely no poker face, and everyone knew it. You wouldn’t trust Freddie Kingston with a secret, not if you knew what was good for you.
If the redhead figured into the mobster murder case somehow, Meg was going to get to the bottom of it- and if that meant staring at her covertly from afar like a teenager with a crush, well, who was Meg to complain about the view?
Her martini was running low, so Meg raised a hand to call the bartender, and as soon as he turned to get the liquor bottle to make her refill, she deftly pinched Freddie’s note from his apron pocket, secreting it away next to the wad of cash in her brassiere.
Further down the bar, Freddie was obviously checking out the hot lounge singer who had just waltzed in – Paige Moth, her name was, and she was dating her manager Chelsey, so not a real threat for Freddie’s affections – and Meg smirked triumphantly, savoring the fresh evidence as much as the knowledge that the girl she liked, also liked girls.
At least that was one more mystery solved.