Free Love at High Tide by Christi Barth

one,” he jerked his chin toward the couch, “looks like a ghost just walked through her. Are you in trouble?”
    “Yes.”
    “No.”
    They spoke simultaneously. Coop figured the truth probably lay somewhere in the middle. He ripped off an arm’s length of paper towels and cleaned up the broken glass while the two women glared at each other. Then he dropped into green corduroy recliner, arms stretched out on the sides. “Spill it,” he ordered.
    Five minutes later, he deeply regretted ever asking. As she recounted their tale, Trina paced the room, arms waving as though doing calisthenics. And her convoluted tale sounded like a mash-up of hopeful paranoia and unjustified assumptions. Nah, why pretty it up? She was just freaking nuts.
    “You said Ivan didn’t follow us.” Trina hurled the accusation at Darcy. “Too fat and slow to be able to keep up with us, you said. But then when Coop knocked on the door, you jumped higher than me. Dropped your beer. Massive party foul. Not a cool, investigator-type move, by the way.”
    “No, I said I didn’t see him follow us. I didn’t slap a money back guarantee on my observation.” On the couch, Darcy hugged her knees to her chest. “Speed and stamina definitely beat out overweight and angry. We lost sight of him after only half a block, darting through parking lots and back alleys,” she explained to Coop.
    It was obvious that Trina had more spunk than smarts, but he’d expected a little more common sense from Darcy. “Alleys? Not what I’d call a safe escape route.”
    “The unknown of the dark alley scared us a lot less than the known of an enormous, pissed off Russian chasing us down. We did backtrack six blocks before finally heading home.”
    Aha. “Must be when your common sense started to rebound.”
    Trina perched on the edge of the coffee table in front of Coop. “So what do we do now?”
    He still hoped to lock lips with Darcy, but that wasn’t really a three-way activity. Still, he had to say something. She looked at him with all the hope of a baby bird waiting for its mother to drop food into its mouth. “Watch television. Go to bed. Spend tomorrow on the beach.”
    “No, I mean, what do we do next on our case?”
    Sugarcoating wouldn’t shut her down. “There is no case.” Coop kept his eyes locked with Trina’s, the same color as the amber ale in his hand. He’d damn well stare her down until resignation drooped her face.
    “That’s it?” She spread her hands, as though grasping at the ideas he refused to share.
    “Look, I’ve got a headache starting from trying so hard to figure out why you’ve labeled this poor guy a criminal.”
    “He sets off my ick-o-meter.”
    Coop shoved his hands through his hair. Did Trina even hear the words coming out of her mouth? “Not really an appropriate way to lead off a criminal complaint. Should he be groping women half his age? No. But if they’re over eighteen, it isn’t illegal. You said they’re all going up to him, not the other way around. Which means no grounds for harassment.”
    “What about the wad of cash?”
    “You said you didn’t see him hand her anything in return. So no suspicion of drugs. She could’ve lost a bet, or be paying rent. The cash by itself isn’t proof of a crime being committed.”
    “But he chased us.”
    “Because you’d followed him for how long? If I caught someone tailing me, I’d damn well want to know their reason for it. The Cold War’s been over for a long time. We don’t arrest people for having Russian accents. You’ve gotta let this go, before you piss him off any more.” Coop pushed up out of the chair. He’d wasted enough time on Trina’s trumped-up mystery.
    “Leaving already?” Darcy asked.
    “Only if you come with me. Want to go for a walk on the beach?”
    Trina picked up on his less than subtle clue. She left the room with a half-hearted wave. Darcy watched her walk down the hallway. “How about we sit on the deck, instead? Trina