Free 6 Martini Regrets by Phyllis Smallman

managed to keep my mouth shut.
    He pulled a photo out of his jacket and, leaning forward, laid it on the desk, pushing it towards me with the tips of his fingers.
    I reached out a finger and slid it the rest of the way to me across the desk. Tito stared up at me. I pushed back in my chair, clutching my hands together in my lap to hide their trembling, and waited.
    “Why?” Styles said.
    “Why what?”
    “Why did he have your card?”
    It was because the ashtray in the truck was full of them. I lifted my shoulders and let them drop. “Someone must have given it to him.”
    “Why?”
    “You’re the detective. Maybe he was moving to this coast and was going to hit me up for a job—busboy, waiter . . .” I shrugged again, dismissing any knowledge of Tito. “Can’t tell you.”
    He nodded in understanding but added just the same, “So you don’t know him?”
    “Don’t think so.”
    “You didn’t even ask what his name is.”
    “Okay, what’s his name?”
    “Tito Martinez.”
    I pretended to search my memory bank. “Still don’t know him.”
    “Can’t tell me anything about him?”
    “Nope.”
    “He had eight thousand dollars in cash in his pocket.”
    “Then I sure as hell don’t know him.”
    We both smiled.
    “He’d just paid two thousand dollars for a used car. So how does a guy probably living on less than minimum come up with ten thousand cash?”
    “If I knew a guy with ten thousand cash . . .” I stopped right there. It was a bad joke, and one I couldn’t make. “Still don’t know him.”
    “So I guess that’s it.”
    “Looks like it.” He leaned over and picked up the picture. He stepped back. Relief showed on his face. “Fine,” he said.
    What was fine?
    His mouth lifted at the corners in a slight smile. “Just needed to ask.”
    “Anything else you want to know?”
    It took him a minute. “Naw. I’m glad . . .” He didn’t finish.
    Was he glad I didn’t know a murder victim or glad he could get the hell away from me?
    “It’s done then,” he said.
    I nodded. But it wasn’t done. There was a whole lot more between us than an inquiry from Dade County. There was a cobweb of emotions, with a dangerous something squirming in the center that neither of us was going anywhere near.
    “I’ll tell Dade you don’t know anything about this guy.”
    “Good,” I said, looking back to the computer screen.
    He started for the door and then turned back. “We have to talk,” he said. “We can’t just go on avoiding each other.”
    “Is that what we’re doing?”
    “It was only a kiss.”
    “Seen by Marley.”
    “It only happened because we’d been drinking.”
    “Yeah, lately too many things have been happening because I was drinking.” I smiled at him. “I’ve drunk my last martini.”
    His forehead wrinkled. “Why . . .” Before he could finish, there was a brief rap on the door and Gwen came in.
    Styles said, “Bye” and bolted out behind Gwen.
    I was folding laundry on the kitchen table when I told Clay about Styles’s visit and Tito’s death. “Why did Tito have my card?” I asked. My hands smoothed a stack of towels, but my eyes searched Clay’s face for reassurance.
    “Didn’t he say he was going to return the pickup?” Clay crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. “Maybe he took the card because he felt bad and wanted to call and tell you where you could find your truck.”
    I pulled a pillowcase out of the pile. “Yeah, he said he was going to return it.” This simple explanation was reassuring.
    “Why didn’t you tell Styles that you knew him?”
    “But I don’t know him.” The cotton snapped as I shook it. “Except his name is Tito and he worked for the dead man, Ben Bricklin. The cops already know that.” I smoothed the material, folding it in on itself. “There’s nothing extra I can tell them about Tito.” I picked up the stack of clean laundry. “I don’t want to get any deeper into it. I don’t want