“Oh, shit.” Like a tidal wave has struck, I’m swept up in the throng trying to claw their way past the bouncer onto the street. “Oh, shit, shit, shit.”
* * *
“Yes, I’m the manager.”
The police officer shines a totally unnecessary flashlight in my face. We’re standing a foot away from a streetlamp, for god’s sake.
“Why are you bleeding?” he demands in a suspicious voice. I take it this is the bad cop. I resist the urge to look around for the good one and ask for them instead.
“It’s not my blood. I was helping someone who got cut on the window glass.”
He eyes the streaks of congealing crimson on my hands and the stains where I’ve wiped them on my pants. “Are you sure about that?”
He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I can’t blame him for being suspicious. After making their way out onto the street, most of the people from Taverne Toulouse took off, but some of the stupider and more inebriated members of the crowd started trashing the first thing they laid eyes on.
That happened to be Julien’s property.
I’d been trying and failing to stop the hooligans from kicking in the windows when one of the kids decided to go all Hulk Smash and use his fist on the glass. He keeled over, spurting blood everywhere, and that’s when my focus shifted to making sure no one died on the pavement tonight. I guess he decided running through the city with an arm full of glass was a better fate than facing the cops because he took off with the rest of them when the cruiser pulled up.
That left just me, my battle-weary staff, and our frazzled musical entertainment here to face the fuzz.
“Lalonde, put thatmauditflashlight down,” an authoritative voice calls out.
The second officer, who is hopefully the good—and smarter—cop strides over to us from where she’s been interviewing Dylan. Bad Cop sheepishly tucks the flashlight away but makes sure to shoot me a sneer right after he does.
“The statements check out,” I hear his evident superior mutter before she turns to me. “You’re the manager, yes? Does this place have exterior cameras?”
I shake my head as I run my hands up and down my arms. It’s far too cold to be conducting interviews outside. “Only inside the bar, I’m afraid.”
“We’ll need the footage anyway. Do you have the contact information for your property’s owner?” She pulls out a cell phone, and I’m just about to reply when a cab pulls up to the curb in front of us.
The passenger side door swings open, and Good Cop moves to intercept the man getting out. I catch one glimpse of his profile and suck in a breath before turning away.
The last thing I need is to come face to face with Julien Valois.
“Monsieur, I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“I’m the owner.” The melody of his accent is somehow still soothing despite the tension resonating in his words. “Of the building. I got an alert from my alarm system. What—Ah,merde! The windows!”
I risk allowing myself a peek, but he doesn’t even glance my way as he rushes past to assess the damage at his bar. All four panels of the front windows have been trashed, and the bottom of the door has a spider web of cracks running through the glass. Thankfully, that’s all there is to the damage; no one managed to get inside.
Julien examines what’s left of the windows, peering through the jagged holes into the darkness of the room beyond. I watch him raise his hand to brace it on the frame and then jerk back like he’s been cut. As he glares down at his fingertip, it’s all I can do not to rush forward and cradle his hand in mine, seeking a way to dull the pain, even if all I have to offer is comfort and quiet words.
Baby bird instinct, remember?
He only inspects his finger for a moment before he clenches his hand into a fist and turns back to the cops. I’ve never seen him in full business mode before, lunging like the flash of a sword through the air, all precision and speed, ready to cut straight to the point. He’s dressed in a button-down and what looks like a tailored black wool coat, despite the fact that it’s almost two in the morning. There’s no weariness in his face, only determination. More than ever, he looks like a man who gets things done.
“What happened?” His voice is steel, hard and unyielding, ready to wound if it needs to.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” the female cop answers. “Things got rowdy next door. We’re in the middle of getting official statements from the manager and any other witnesses. If you’d like to press charges—”
“The manager?”
Like a kid convinced of the ‘I can’t see you if you can’t see me’ rule, I turned away as soon as the cop nodded in my direction, but Julien must have pinned me down anyway. My first instinct is to tuck and roll into Taverne Toulouse, but I force myself to take a deep breath and face the music like an adult.
Although if I actually knew how to tuck and roll, I’d probably be going with that solution.
“I thought you may have met,” the cop continues. “This is—”