Stripped. Julie Leto

the street. “So would I.”

      They waited for a delivery truck to squeeze around the Lamborghini, then used the massive vehicle as cover to cross the street unseen. For all they knew, Boothe had positioned himself next to one of the blackened windows. Wouldn’t the defense attorney have a field day reporting back to the mayor that a detective who had lost his badge and a civilian with a questionable reputation were tailing him?

      They slipped into an alley next to the bar, nearly tripping over a guy napping in a cardboard box.

      “How do we play this?” she asked as they picked their way through the garbage cans to the side-door entrance to the bar. “Boothe Thompson isn’t stupid.”

      Mac tested the doorknob, rolling his eyes when it opened without protest. “I’m counting on this joint being anything but a clean, well-lighted place. Add to it the clouds of cigarette smoke and we should be fine.”

      Though Lilith doubted the bar served more than peanuts or stale chips with their well drinks and less-than-premium beers, the kitchen smelled like rotted cabbage and rancid grease. Just beyond the door, a stereo blared, unbalanced to favor the bass, with hard-metal riffs that would effectively drown out any conversations transpiring within. Lilith held her nose as they scurried through the kitchen like the rats that clearly lived among the torn cardboard boxes and grimy crates. Mac opened the swinging door into the bar a few inches, spotted Boothe Thompson sitting near the back, then grabbed Lilith’s hand and hauled her inside.

      She nearly choked from the stench of tobacco and unwashed bodies, suddenly craving the sweet celery and woodsy cedar that dominated her altar in her quest for healing. Mac dragged her into a booth, gestured to the bartender for two beers and pulled the hood of his jacket closer to his face.