“Don’t worry,” Grover said, obviously sensing the same thing in Ryan. “I’ll be right nearby. No one will lay an unfriendly hand on her without getting it broken a second later.”

  “Very reassuring,” Ryan said unconvincingly. “I’ll stay across the way from you guys, but always in sight. I want to have eyes on the big picture to warn you of potential threats you might not notice coming your way.”

  “Always looking out for me,” Jessie said, making another stab at puncturing the tension of the moment.

  “You better believe it,” he replied before leaning over and giving her surprising but pleasantly passionate kiss. “Please be careful. I can’t have anything happen to you.”

  “I will,” she told him, dropping the playful tone to let him know she was ready for this.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Ryan said. “I’ll leave first. Jessie, you wait thirty seconds and head out. Grover brings up the rear fifteen seconds after that. Everybody ready?"

  “Ready,” Jessie said.

  “Ready, “Grover agreed.

  “Here we go,” Ryan said, turning and disappearing through the door.

  Jessie counted to thirty, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the club and whatever danger lay within it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  At first, everyone seemed like a suspect to Jessie.

  Guys dressed up like Keanu Reeves in John Wick and Keanu Reeves in The Matrix exuded a similar menace when the outfit wasn’t paired with Keanu Reeves’ face. To Jessie, the dude dressed up as Captain America was just a man wearing a mask that made it hard to identify him.

  It took her a good five minutes get her bearings, filter out the craziness of her surroundings, and focus in on locating men in their thirties with dark hair and middling builds. It might be a waste of time since their suspect could be wearing a wig or have otherwise changed his appearance. But she had to start somewhere.

  As she walked to the bar, she got two compliments from women on her outfit. Both of them specifically identified her film and character. Some of the men she passed looked her up and down, though no one commented on the costume. But that didn’t stop them from hitting on her.

  “Can I get a tall drink of liquor for the tall drink of water?” one guy asked as she passed by.

  “I’m good for now, but thanks,” she said, after identifying him as a decade too old and five inches too short to be their guy. His outfit was a soldier’s uniform, but it was too generic to guess who he was dressed as.

  “Let me know if you need help peeling off that turtleneck,” offered a young, frizzy-haired guy in lab coat. Jessie thought he was going for Doc Brown in Back to the Future but couldn’t be sure. She didn't even respond to him. Time was short, and she couldn't waste it on anyone who didn't at least come close to matching the suspect's description.

  It occurred to her that her flirting skills were seriously out of practice. She’s met her first husband, the one who tried to gaslight her, frame her for murder, then kill her, back in college. And she’d only been divorced from him for about a year before things got romantic with Ryan. So she hadn’t worked these muscles in earnest since she was a teenager. She feared how much they might have atrophied.

  “You know guys,” she said as she maneuvered past people on her way to the bar, “I’m less concerned about getting surprised by this killer than by how I’m going to handle the flirty-datey thing. It’s been awhile.”

  “I say go for it,” Ryan said. “Be aggressive. I promise it won’t hurt my feelings.”

  “You say that now,” Jessie replied as she finally got through the sea of humanity and reached the bar.

  Without a clue as to how best to approach this undertaking, she decided to take his advice and just dive in. After all, in theory she was supposed to be here because had signed up for a dating app and chosen to come to this kind of outing. She had to sell that. She picked a guy who generally matched the guy in the Brewpub video and shimmied into the small space next to him.

  “Who are you supposed to be?” she asked, forgoing any opening pleasantries.

  “You can’t tell?” he said, pretending to be hurt.

  “White dress shirt, loosened tie, navy sports jacket, heavily gelled hair?” she countered. “It feels like you could just be a talent agent that popped in here after work, completely unaware there was a mixer going on.”

  “You’re not far off,” he said. “This is my Jerry Maguire look.”

  “No offense, but it doesn’t feel like you really put your heart into this one, Jerry.”

  “Cliff, actually,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Jessica,” she told him, only partly lying as she shook it.

  “Well, Jessica, I have a confession to make.”

  “Oh, I like confessions,” she told him with great sincerity.

  “The ‘costume’ was a last-minute brainstorm,” Cliff said. “I had to choose from the limited wardrobe choices I had available.”

  “We’re Hollywood-adjacent right now,” she replied. “There are a dozen costume houses within five miles of this club. You don’t have much of an excuse.”

  “I think I kind of do,” he insisted. “The truth is I didn’t even think I’d make this mixer. I only flew back into town an hour ago. I had a business trip in New York, and my flight was delayed. It was really touch and go there for a while."

  Jessie’s heart sank a little. If Cliff was telling the truth, then he had a perfect alibi for at least last night. Still, she pushed ahead just in case he was lying.

  “Oh yeah,” she said, feigning interest, “how long were you there?”

  “I got into New York on Sunday night. It was two and a half days of non-stop meetings.”

  “Cool,” she said. “You got any photos?”

  “Sure,” he said excitedly, apparently enthused at how well this interaction was going.

  Unfortunately, Jessie was less so. Once she looked at the time stamps on his photos, which verified when he was there, her mind turned to extricating herself from the situation.

  “Oh, hold on,” she said, pulling out her phone and pretending that she’d gotten a text. “Damn! My roommate is having a personal issue, as usual. She's a drama queen, and I've got to deal with this, or she'll text me all night. But it was nice talking to you, Cliff."

  "Can I get you a drink for when you come back?" he asked eagerly.

  “That’s okay,” she said bluntly, “this might take a while.”

  She turned away before he could respond and slid through the morass of bodies.

  "That was cold," Grover said in her ear, his British tone somehow sounding more disapproving than it otherwise would. "You may be out of practice at flirting but certainly not at crushing men's spirits."

  “She’s an expert at that,” Ryan piled on giddily.

  “That’s enough of that,” Jessie hissed. “This is hard enough without the peanut gallery offering a running commentary. Shut it, boys!”

  “Sorry,” Ryan said, chastened.

  “Yes, sorry,” Grover added, less convincingly.

  Jessie didn’t respond. She was too focused on evaluating another potential target. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. And with his dark hair and medium, slightly out-of-shape build, he looked like an option worth pursuing.

  “What do you guys think of the fellow in the white tuxedo at the bar, fifteen feet to my left?” she wondered. “He looks like a decent match to me.”

  "Hard to tell for sure from this angle, but I guess I can see it," Ryan said. "You want to give him a try?"

  “Heading that way now,” Jessie replied, snaking past three women wearing matching leopard-print dresses, clearly inspired by the film, Muriel’s Wedding. She found a stool open next to the guy and hopped on it.

  “How’s it going?” she asked when he turned to face her.

  “Better now,” he said. “Who are you supposed to be?”

  “I’m Sally from When Harry Met Sally…,” she told him, slightly disappointed that he didn’t get it, despite that not being the point of this conversation.

  “Never saw it,” he said, “but I’m sure you nailed it.”

  "Thanks," she said, trying to get a sense of the guy. He didn't seem nervous, like he was anxiously looking for his next victim, but that didn't mean anything. Serial killers weren't necessarily known for their jangly nerves. "So let me guess here. You're either the maître d' from some movie I don't recognize, or you're James Bond. Which is it?"

  He gave her a mildly offended look, and for a moment she feared she’d made a faux pas she wouldn’t be able to recover from.

  “Of course I’m Bond. James Bond,” he said, slurring his own introduction slightly.

  “My apologies,” she said. “What’s your civilian name when you’re not on a mission, James?”

  He smiled broadly, and Jessie noted that his eyes were a little glassy. She wondered how many drinks he'd already had.

  “Newberry,” he announced dramatically, “Brett Newberry. What about you?”

  “I go by Jessica when I’m on a mission like this,” she whispered conspiratorially.

  “Oh yeah, what’s your mission?” he asked.

  Jessie noted that his eyes were sharper now as he allowed himself to peek lasciviously at her sweater. She suddenly felt like she was in the company of a shark, only one drawn to the contours of her red top rather than blood.

  And yet, something didn’t feel quite right. Would the man who had convinced two seemingly level-headed women to leave an event with him be this salaciously clumsy? It was hard to imagine any woman leaping at the chance to hook up with this guy. And if he was their killer, would he get drunk less than a half hour into the mixer? Brett Newberry seemed too sloppy to do what their killer had done.

  “My mission?” she asked, trying to think of a way to extricate herself from the situation. She looked across the bar and saw another guy in a white tux and decided to make him her excuse. “My mission, and I do choose to accept it, is to determine who is the most convincing James Bond here tonight. Once I make my determination, I’ll be buying that guy the drink of his choice. You make a compelling case for yourself, Brett. But I have to keep it moving.”

  “Wait,” he said, his goofy, drunk smile turning into an indignant frown. “You’re not just gonna bail on me, are you?”

  “I’m just completing my mission,” she said sweetly, shrugging as she slid off the barstool and started to step away. “The crown and the nation demand it of me. You understand.”

  Without warning, Brett grabbed her wrist tightly and tugged her back toward him.

  “Actually, I don’t,” he growled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Jessie tried not to wince.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grover, who was less than ten feet away, start to move in their direction. She shook her head slightly, warning him off. Despite what Brett Newberry was doing right now, she didn’t believe he had murdered those women. And if the killer was here and saw that she had personal protection on standby, he’d never make a move. Besides, she could handle this guy on her own.

  “Brett,” she said calmly, leaning in so that her lips were almost touching the man’s ear, “I’m going to need you to let go of me right now.”

  “You think it’s cool to lead someone on and then just shut them down like this?” he demanded indignantly, not releasing his grip.

  She decided that one warning was enough. With her free hand, she grabbed his thumb and squeezed the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, pinching hard. He immediately let go of her wrist, but she kept a tight pincer hold on him as he contorted in pain.

  “You think it’s cool to touch a woman when she clearly doesn’t want you too, Brett?” she replied, never raising her voice.

  He tried to respond but could only grunt. His watery eyes pleaded with her to let go.

  “It’s not cool, Brett, and I want you to remember that,” she said. “Nod for me to show that you’ll remember that.”

  After a desperate gasp, Brett managed a weak nod. She let go of him.

  "Don't mess with me, Brett," she continued. "Or next time, I'll rip off your thumb and shove it where the sun doesn't shine."

  Then she moved away, not even looking back. She doubted Brett would try to follow her but felt confident that if he did, Grover would handle it for her without drawing too much attention. Still, she didn’t linger, bobbing and weaving her way through the club traffic so that it would be difficult to keep up with her.

  “That was impressive,” Ryan said in her ear. “Where did you learn it?”

  “You remember that ten-week FBI training course I took a couple of years ago, before I officially joined HSS? I retained a few of their lessons.”

  “Maybe you can show me that move later on,” he replied.

  “Um, should I take out my earpiece for the rest of this conversation?” Grover asked. “I feel like this is some twisted form of marital foreplay.”

  Jessie was tempted to use one of her moves on the bodyguard to keep him in line but restrained herself.

  “I’m sure we’re quite tame compared to some of your past clients, Grover,” she said before getting them back on task. “I’m heading over to James Bond number two now.”

  She moved quickly to get to a recently vacated barstool before someone else did. As she darted over, she studied the man she was approaching. He was wearing a similar white tux to Brett’s, but now she noticed something she’d missed before. There was an unlit cigarette on the bar in front of him, next to what looked like a glass of water.

  He fit the general profile of the man they were looking for. His hair was dark and perhaps a bit too full to be natural. He was sitting, so it was hard to compare his build to the guy in the video. But he looked to be in the mid-thirties, which also generally matched the man who had left the Brewpub last night with Rena.

  Jessie made it through the crowd and was just sidling up to take the stool next to the man when Ryan spoke in her ear.

  “I just got word from Jamil,” he said. “Remember, all this time he’s been running facial recognition on the guy in the video from the Old Town Brewpub. Well, he got a 94% match on someone. The suspect is Austin Flynn, thirty-five, heir to the Flynn Thins potato chip company. He has a residence just a few miles from here. We’re sending units there in case your guy at the bar isn’t him. Jamil also just sent a driver’s license photo to us for comparison. Take a peek when you can to see if you think we have the right man.”

  Jessie would have looked at her phone, but just then, the man glanced over at her and gave a shy smile.

  “It’s yours if you want it,” he said, indicating the stool next to him.

  “Thank you,” she replied, sliding on to it, “what a gentleman. It looks like it’s not just your outfit that’s old school.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “But please don’t be the half dozenth person to guess that I’m James Bond.”

  “Of course not,” she assured him, smiling warmly. “Since you can’t smoke in here, I’m guessing the cigarette is for effect. And the person who most comes to mind when I think of a man in a white dinner jacket with a cigarette is Humphry Bogart. So my money is on you being Rick from Casablanca. How’d I do?”

  She didn’t need him to answer to know how she did. Over the course of her response, his tentative smile had turned into a broad grin.

  “Quite well,” he said. “I’m impressed. Shall I do you?”

  “Please,” she replied.

  “Red sweater, brown blazer, blue jeans, and shaggy blonde hair,” he said. “I’d know this anywhere. You’re Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally…”

  “You nailed it,” she said. “Not the first person to get it tonight, but definitely the first guy. You like that movie?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’m a hopeful romantic.”

  “Not hopeless?”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “What’s your name, hopeful romantic?” she asked, sensing that she was getting back on her banter game, though she didn’t love that it happened while chatting up a potential murderer.

  “Augie,” he said, extending his hand, “Augie Melton.”

  “Jessica Hunter,” she lied, shaking it before pointing to his glass. “You’re not drinking?”

  "Not alcohol," he said. "I'm a lightweight, and I'd like to be at my best if I'm going to put myself out there for something like this. But I'd be honored to get you something if you like."

  “That’s very kind of you,” she replied. “How about a French 75?”

  Augie smiled even broader at that.

  “That’s from the movie too, if I recall,” he said.

  “You don’t miss a thing,” she told him.

  He waved to the bartender. As he ordered, Jessie heard Ryan’s voice in her earpiece.

  “We’re checking on the name now,” he said. “I’ll let you know if it’s legit.”

  “So do you come to many of these mixers?” Augie asked once he was done ordering.

  “Not really,” she said. “I only just signed up on the IRL app. I was going to try to get to that trivia night in Torrance last night, but I couldn’t make it because of work. You?”

  For the first time since they started talking, his expression darkened.

  “Are you asking if I went to the mixer or what kind of work I do?” he asked tartly.

  She realized she’s hit a nerve and decided to pull back a bit.

  “Since you don’t seem excited by either option, never mind,” she said quickly. “How about, considering our surroundings, you just tell me your favorite movie?’

  “I’m sorry,” he said, seeming to get that he’d been a little too sharp. “I guess I just get tired of the whole ‘what do you do?’ thing. Maybe we can avoid that stuff for a while?”

  “I totally get it,” she said, sensing she might have the right guy. An uber-wealthy heir to a snack fortune might not want to reveal that fact about himself, whether it was because he feared gold-diggers or just being identified. “How about we stick to the movies?”

  “Oh, I don't know," he said with a heavy sigh. "Maybe It Happened One Night, Pride and Prejudice, or even Moonstruck.”

 

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