Free Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) by Sarah Lovett

a little American Spirit shag and a rolling paper. When she sealed the cigarette by moistening the paper with her tongue, Matt said a silent prayer that her shots were in order. He slid the cigarette between his lips as Kiki struck a match. She held out the flame, and Matt sucked in smoke.
          Kiki drained the last of the Black Jack from her shot glass. "I liked him."
          "Randall?"
          She nodded. "Nobody else did. But we were friends, kinda. And I know he didn't rape that girl. He wasn't all bad like people say." Her hands pressed down on the bar. "I don't like cops."
          "Who does?" Matt tried a smile.
          "You guys have given me some rough times."
          "I'm sorry about that, Kiki." Matt pushed his tongue against one cheek.
          "But Robbie says you're different.''
          "Robbie's an okay guy." Robert Wiggits, owner of the Cock 'n' Bull, biker, speed freak. Occasional snitch. For some reason—which probably had something to do with Robbie's bisexual preferences—he'd taken a shine to Matt.
          "So. . ." Kiki picked up the bottle of Black Jack, tipped it until the metal pour spout clicked glass, and reached a decision when the gold liquid formed a soft dome at the top of the shot glass. "Yesterday, I wasn't here when Anthony came in." Her expression darkened. "I wish I had been. He'd still be alive."
          Matt watched the bartender closely. Some twist of her delicate mouth made him question her true feelings about Randall's death. Matt thought that maybe this large, rough woman had fallen for the man's pretty face and sociopathic charm, but now, the reality was starting to sink in about Anthony Randall.
          Or perhaps something more ominous was going on, something she wasn't talking about.
          Suddenly, Kiki yelled out, "Hey, Shoshone!" The shrill sound pierced Matt's ears.
          A few seconds later, another full-size Anglo woman—hair dyed black, late thirties—stuck her face between the saloon's swinging doors.
          Shoshone said, "What?" Then she stomped into the bar, kicking off a parade: two guys followed—one sporting worn Levi's, a faded T-shirt, work boots, and a billcap, the other in manure-spatted cowboy boots and duds.
          Matt thought they looked like they were buzzed on meth.
          Kiki set up beers for her friends. She told Matt, "These guys were here. They saw Anthony Randall, the whole thing."
          Matt's heartbeat revved as he stubbed out the last of Kiki's cigarette. He leaned casually against the bar. "Anybody see who he was with?"
          Shoshone had a rumbling voice, a deep bass. "He was looking for Kiki so I poured him a shot of tequila."
          Matt said, "You were a friend of his?"
          "That little shit?"
          Matt saw a sulking Kiki ease down to the end of the bar, where she began to roll another smoke. He said, "It must've been really busy in here."
          Shoshone stuck a finger into her mouth, and retrieved a wad of gum. "I know what Randall looked like. And I saw him yesterday."
          Matt believed that much was true.
          Billcap sniffed and wiped his nose. "I remember him, too, and he sat back by the pool table. A guy sat down with him—a black dude."
          "No way." Cowboy shook his head. "He sat over by the toilet. Him and a tiny Mexican chick—"
          Billcap shrugged, then chugged his beer.
          For an instant Matt's excitement level plummeted. These guys weren't going to tell him squat about Randall. Not if they could help it. They talked like Randall was drinking with a shape-shifter.
          But Matt's curiosity was piqued. Why all the bullshit? Just for his benefit? Just to mess with a cop?
          Shoshone growled in Matt's face: "I remember the guy Anthony Randall was drinking with. Tight body, you know? Guy was buff. But he was kinda short."
          She turned and chopped a hand