Fatal Reunion. Jessica R. Patch

      “They were, in a sense.” Luke opened a drawer and found a roll of antacids.

      “And Harmony Fells was wrapped up in this group?”

      Luke nodded.

      “She’s squeaky-clean now. A few stains on her juvie record.” Eric finished his coffee and shot the cup into the can a couple of feet away. “Score!”

      “Couldn’t place her, Tyson Baroni or Chaz Michaels at the scene that night.” But he could place Piper. She’d been two blocks from the Strosbergen home, running like Carl Lewis in the hundred-meter sprint.

      “I know you and she had a thing—”

      “It won’t affect my job.” He’d make sure of it. Never. Again.

      “I was going to say that even though you had a thing with her, we ought to take a little look-see into her Jackson life. See if she’s as innocent as she says.” He stood and clutched his jacket. “Get some rest tonight.”

      “You got a date?”

      Eric wiggled his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

      “It’s why I asked.” Luke chuckled. “And you answered my question. You don’t.”

      “When I can find a woman who won’t freak every time I holster a gun to my shoulder, I’ll be set. Call if something pops.”

      Hopefully, when something did, Piper’s name wouldn’t be anywhere near it. The churning in his gut said otherwise.

      * * *

      Beale Street hadn’t changed much in a decade. Neon lights lit up the murky sky. Ashy clouds slithered around the full moon. Not a star in sight. Piper flipped the collar of her black canvas jacket around her ears. The wind was colder and stronger coming off the Mississippi River. Shards of glass and trash littered the sidewalks. Horses clip-clopped down the street eagerly waiting for couples who wanted a romantic ride in lit-up carriages. Quite the contradiction.

      Blues music drifted from clubs, restaurants and bars. Saturday night. Throngs of people packed into the buildings. Riff’s turned a blind eye and welcomed anyone who at least looked sixteen, mostly riffraff. Piper had been coming and going since she was fifteen.

      The neon pink sign blared over the aged brick building. Two large windows revealed patrons enveloped in cigarette smoke and pale lighting. She stood out front, inhaling the tangy scent of BBQ and char-grilled burgers. Liquor permeated Beale Street on Friday and Saturday nights. Wasn’t even May yet. Memphis in May would draw huge crowds.

      She could stand here with a million regrets or go in and try to dig up some information on Christopher Baxter.

      A chill swept up her spine. That being-watched feeling coated her skin. No time to second-guess the idea. It was now or never.