The cyclist opened the door.

Lance grabbed the handle and held it open while the man tipped the bike onto its rear tire and maneuvered it outside. It sounded like he was wearing tap shoes. “Thanks. Who are you looking for?”

“Jake Riley in 4-B,” Morgan said with a smile.

The man shook his head. “He’s not home. Haven’t seen him much lately. Try Riley’s Place.” He gave them directions. “It’s only about a half mile. You can walk from here.” His shoes clicked on the concrete as he lifted the bike down the steps, set it on the road, and pedaled off.

Morgan and Lance followed his vague directions and walked up Hicks Street to Atlantic Avenue. The sun came out from behind the clouds, and unlike in Manhattan, its warm rays actually reached the street in Brooklyn.

Ten minutes later, they approached Riley’s Place, which appeared to be a dive bar. They passed the narrow alley that ran next to the building.

“Morgan.” Lance stared down the alley.

In the back, the front end of an old black muscle car stuck out from behind a dumpster.

“Hold on.” Lance jogged down the alley and back. His eyes were bright. “It’s a Chevy Nova.”

“It was Olivia’s editor who knocked on her door Thursday evening.” Excitement flushed warmth through Morgan. Could this be the lead they’d been looking for?

Lance nodded. “It’s only a three-hour drive.”

They walked to the door of the bar.

Morgan glanced at her watch. “It’s ten thirty. I don’t see the hours posted. Do you think they’re open?”

Lance looked through the glass. “I see people at the bar.”

“Kind of early.”

“Hard-core,” he agreed.

Inside was dark, and the floor felt vaguely sticky underfoot. The wooden bar formed a letter J. A dozen tables were lined up along the wall. An upright piano was squeezed into the space between the bar and the doorway that led to the restrooms and back office.

Despite the early hour, several people sat on wooden stools, lifting tumblers of amber-colored liquid. The bartender dried glasses with a towel at the back. Morgan headed for him. Some of the attention that turned on her felt inexplicably hostile. As if he sensed it too, Lance deftly slid around her to place himself between Morgan and the patrons, as usual.

The bartender set the glass on the bar. “What do you want?”

“We’re looking for Jake Riley.” Morgan smiled.

The bartender didn’t return the pleasantry. “You look like a lawyer.”

He said the word lawyer as if it were synonymous with Satan.

Morgan glanced down. Her suit and heels were not the sort of attire she’d normally wear to a dive bar. But then, she’d expected to interview a literary agent and a book editor. Professional attire had seemed best.

“I am a lawyer.” She slid a business card across the bar. “I just want to talk to Mr. Riley.”

The bartender’s gaze dropped to her card for two seconds. “I ain’t seen him.”

A footstep scuffed on the hardwood to Morgan’s right. Next to her, Lance stiffened, and she turned her head. An old man stood in the doorway between the back rooms and the bar. Artificial light from the room behind him fell on the shotgun he pointed at Morgan and Lance.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Sweat trickled down Lance’s back. The old man with the shotgun was swaying like a maple tree in a nor’easter. The old guy was bald and pale, with sunken eyes that suggested a terrible sickness. Jeans and a sweatshirt bagged on his skeletal frame.

“What do you want?” He stepped closer. The fingers that clutched the gun were as thin as talons. “To serve me with another subpoena?”

“No. We just came here to talk.” Lance raised his hands, simultaneously sliding his shoulder in front of Morgan. But he didn’t dare step in front of her for fear of setting off the old man. He debated pulling his own weapon. But he couldn’t clear the holster faster than the old man could pull the trigger. The guy looked desperate and shaky, not a stable combination. Lance couldn’t take the chance. A handgun wasn’t accurate outside of eight or ten feet, but a shotgun at that range was deadly.

Morgan held her hands in front of her chest, palms out, in the classic hands up position.

A younger man hurried through the doorway behind him. “Dad! Put that down.”

“No.” The old man gestured toward Lance and Morgan with the gun barrel. “I won’t have one more fucking lawyer trying to get a piece of us. I’m dying, for crying out loud. I don’t have anything to lose.”

Lance shifted an inch sideways, putting more of his body in front of Morgan.

“Dad, come on.” The younger man put his hands over his father’s and tipped the barrel of the shotgun to the floor. Then he gently eased it away. He ducked into the back room and reappeared a few seconds later without the shotgun.

Lance glanced at Morgan. She lowered her hands. Behind her, the patrons shot them disapproving frowns.

“Can’t you people just leave them alone?” the bartender snapped. “Can’t you wait until he’s in the ground to take his bar?”

“We’re not here to take the bar,” Morgan said softly.

“Are you from the bank?” the younger man asked.

Morgan shook her head. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The younger guy seemed more exhausted and frustrated than hostile, but Lance kept his body between him and Morgan just in case.

But Morgan stepped in front, offering the younger guy her business card. “I’m Morgan Dane, and this is my associate Lance Kruger. We’re looking for Jake Riley.”

The young man took the card and read it. “Which Jake Riley, junior or senior?”

“The book editor,” Morgan clarified.

“That’s me.” The tension in Jake’s shoulders eased. “I’m a junior.” The young man reached for his father’s arm. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get you back to bed.”

“No.” His father jerked his arm away. Then he sagged and collapsed onto the piano bench. “Buddy! Pour me a whiskey.”

The younger man frowned. “Dad, you can’t—”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m gonna die no matter what.” The old man plinked at a few keys, then spread his hands over the keyboard. His hands trembled too hard to play. “I just want five fucking minutes of normal.”

The bartender poured two fingers of amber liquid into a tumbler and set it on the bar. The old man pushed himself off the piano bench and shuffled to a stool. He eased onto it and pulled the glass closer, his shoulders slumping over his whiskey. His eyes closed as he sipped. He swallowed, coughed, and set down the tumbler. “Son of a bitch. Can’t play my piano. Can’t drink my whiskey. Might as well kill me now.” He took another sip, this time barely wetting his lips. “That’s better.” He eyed Morgan and Lance. “You’re not here from the bank?”

“No, sir.” Lance walked over to the piano and sat down.

“May I use the restroom?” Morgan asked.

Jake gestured to the doorway at the back of the bar, and Morgan walked through it.