Free Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand Page B

ex-wife gave me a description of a woman who was with him before his death. This woman told Ford’s kids to call her Trixie. That was you.”
    “And?”
    “And I want to know the truth about what’s going on.”
    She glances around. “You really think this is the place to do this? I’m actually meeting people here. Why don’t we handle this in a professional way—”
    “This is a professional courtesy. You asked for a favor and you got it. You said there was a life at stake—fine. But now I think you were spinning us a tale, and even if I don’t know what your angle is yet, I’ll find out. I’m giving you a chance to clear things up right now, before it’s out of your control.”
    Up onstage, the song ends, prompting desultory applause and a few tipsy hoots from the dance floor. The singer tips his straw hat back and says they’re taking a break. The clapping intensifies.
    “You’re making a mistake here, March.”
    “That’s all you’re gonna say?”
    “You’re making this complicated when it ought to be very simple. Is it so hard for you just to follow my lead? If you go along and don’t screw this up, at the end of the day you’ll have a high-profile clearance you can add to your resumé. The alternative is, you get a man killed and torpedo a Federal investigation.”
    “I already heard the pitch,” I say. “I want to know what’s really going on.”
    “You know as much as you need to. More than that, actually. Tell me this, if what you say is true and Brandon Ford is too real to be a cover, then why would I bother handing you the file? If I knew you were going to get his name from NCIC and when you checked him out you’d be convinced, what was the upside for me?”
    “I don’t know. I was hoping you would explain that.”
    She shakes her head. “You’re a piece of work. Now, will you get out of here? I’ve told you everything I’m going to tell you. Do whatever you want.”
    All the replies that come flooding to my lips would only sound ridiculous. The set of her jaw says she’s unmovable.
    “You’ve had your chance,” I say, in spite of myself.
    She greets this with a smirk.
    On my way out I glance back. Bea still sits alone at the table. I’m tempted to hang around and see who’s joining her—a friend, a colleague, someone I might be able to place?—but then the band members start climbing onstage again, reaching unsteadily for their microphone stands. I push my way through the loiterers at the door, glad to be back in the balmy night air. From the smell on the breeze I’m guessing we’re in for more rain.
    ———
    While I’m driving home, Charlotte calls from London. It’s good to hear her voice, though she sounds too close to be so far away. She tells me about the people she’s met, the places she’s been taken to eat. She asks if I’ve been watching the news, because there are demonstrations on the streets. I haven’t. She sounds disappointed.
    “When things wrapped up in the city,” she says, “the boys took a flight up to Scotland to play a few rounds at St. Andrews. I ditched them and went on my own little adventure. You really should have come, Roland. I went to Cambridge and to Ely Cathedral—it’s the oldest Norman cathedral in the country—and I met a real-life vicar’s daughter, if you can believe it.”
    I make the appropriate sounds at the appropriate intervals. I’m still preoccupied by the conversation with Bea, and getting angry about it. I need to focus.
    “And what about you?” Charlotte asks. “What have you been doing with yourself?”
    “Working.”
    “Just working?”
    “We caught a nasty one after you left. But we don’t need to talk about that.”
    “Are you all right? You sound kind of funny.”
    “It’s nothing,” I say. “I fell down the other day. I think I pulled something.”
    “You should go to the doctor, Roland.”
    “That’s what Hedges told me. Speaking of which—” But no, there’s no point in getting into