She was generally skeptical of altruism. In her experience, very few people did the right thing, especially when they had something to lose. Seemed like Joe Molina was one of the rare ones.
He hadn’t discussed any of this with her. He wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone about being an informant for the FBI. So far he’d upheld his end of the deal.
Still, from the beginning she’d told Matt she didn’t think they should alert Joe Molina about the investigation into A-Line and David Hargrove. Matt, to his credit, had considered her argument, but in the end, Matt went with his original plan. There was no guarantee that Michael Harris, who was deep cover at Southwest Copper, would have access to critical information, especially when they would need warrants.
A background check on Joe Molina turned up that he’d had two speeding tickets over the last five years (both paid) and only one small ding on his credit when he was late on a car payment. Hardly anything to garner suspicion. He wasn’t particularly tied to Southwest Copper, because until his mother got sick last year, he’d been living and working in Phoenix after graduating from college.
So far, so good.
Joe said hello to the people he knew—virtually everyone—as he walked through the bar and sat down at the end of the long counter. She smiled at him, friendly, just a hint of attraction. She didn’t want to make it too easy or suspicious. They’d spent nearly two weeks just getting to know each other through light flirting and casual conversation.
“Hey, Joe, what can I get for you?”
“The usual.”
Joe liked the craft beer the bar owners brought in from a microbrewery in Tucson. Most of the regulars drank either Coors or Coors Light on tap. They had a couple of other offerings and the microbrew sales would increase exponentially during the art festival, but 80 percent of their beer sales was in Coors.
Then there were those who tossed back a shot or three of whiskey before they switched to beer.
She poured a pint and put it on a coaster in front of Joe. “It’s going to get busy in a few,” she said. “Payday.”
They hadn’t gone out on an official date, though Joe often came near closing and walked her home. Twice already he’d brought her dinner when she was busy. They’d talked a lot about a whole range of things—from her temporary bartending gig through Memorial Day to her quasi-fictional life story—and his real life story.
Joe Molina didn’t seem to have a lying bone in his body. She didn’t need to verify anything, though of course she did anyway because she was a good cop. Kara’s old boss in LA, Lex, had often told her she was a human lie detector, and he wasn’t wrong about that. It was par for the course, being raised by a couple of con artists. Reading people was in her blood. Coupled with police training and nearly twelve years undercover, and yeah, she could read people better than most cops.
Joe was one of the good guys, and she almost felt guilty about pretending to be someone that she wasn’t.
Except that this was her job, and guilt was a useless emotion. The only thing Kara truly felt guilty about—so guilty that she forced herself to push it to the back of her mind—was getting Sunny killed back in LA. No matter what Lex had told her, no matter what went down, she knew deep in her heart that Sunny was dead at the age of twenty-two because of her. Kara had manipulated Sunny into helping her take down a sweatshop, knowing full well how dangerous it was for the young Chinese immigrant. Sunny had been trafficked when she was only twelve and forced to work for a decade making knockoff designer clothes until Kara went in deep cover to shut down that operation.
Then Sunny was dead, and her blood was on Kara’s hands.
“You okay?” Joe asked.
Joe was perceptive. It bothered her that she’d let her emotions bubble to the surface.
“Nostalgic, I guess,” she said, noncommittal.
“You’ve worked every night since you started.”
“How do you know?”
“Small town.” He smiled. “So, I was thinking after we talked the other day, about your interest in photography. You mentioned you wanted to shoot the desert, explore one of the ghost towns, that you had a thing for abandoned buildings. It’s going to be nice tomorrow morning, not too hot. I’d like to take you down to Harshaw.”
“Is that a ghost town or something?”
He laughed. “Not quite. There’s still a few people living there. It’s not far from town. I thought we could go on a little hike. We could also check out the ghost town south of Harshaw. You’d probably like to take pictures of it, though there’s really not much there. A few structures. I think an old church, if it’s still standing.”
“You were paying attention,” she said with a half smile.
“Of course I was. I remember everything you say.”
“You do?”
“You don’t like anything with mayo in it, but you love mustard, especially if it has horseradish.”
She laughed, genuinely laughed, and was slightly impressed. “And my favorite beer?”
“From a microbrewery near where your grandmother lives in Washington, though you’ll drink just about anything. If you had your choice, a good reposado tequila straight up.”
He was good—they had talked about beer the night they’d met because Joe was the first person who’d ordered the microbrew from her, and that was the only time Kara talked about her grandmother. And yeah, she preferred drinking tequila to most anything.
The key to a good cover was to keep it as close to the truth as possible. Unless it was necessary for the job, she never changed certain facts about herself—such as the foods she didn’t like, or that she’d been raised (in part) in Washington State. Or that she was an only child. She could call upon the truth more easily than remembering an elaborate cover.
The best lies were based in truth.
“I’d love to go,” she said.
“Great. I really need a break from—well, everything.”
He wasn’t looking at her, and she wondered what had been going on over and above his helping the FBI in their investigation.
“Are you an early riser?” Joe asked.
Sleep often eluded her, and she generally functioned on four to five hours of sleep a night.
“I can be.”
“Five thirty, if that’s not too early for you—then we can get down there as the sun’s coming up. Should make for some good pictures. Just one caveat.”
“A caveat?” she teased.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ryder Kim walk in. She didn’t react, though she was ticked off. Ryder was showing up here at the bar way too often. She didn’t blame him—she blamed her new boss, Special Agent in Charge Mathias Costa.