Whiskey, You're The Devil: An Addison Holmes Mystery (Addison Holmes Mysteries Book 4) by Liliana Hart

I found my phone.
    “Are you seriously cancelling on me?” I said as greeting. My intuition was usually pretty spot on, which is how I managed to do my job so effectively without actually having any real skills.
    “I never said anything about cancelling,” Nick said. “You know what they say about people who make assumptions.”
    There was something about Nick’s voice—the sexy southern drawl that rasped across my skin and sent tingles straight to my lady parts—and I immediately felt the tension I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying around release from my shoulders.
    The thing that I’d come to realize about Nick was that he was my equalizer. I had a tendency to be overemotional and dramatic at times, though I’m a rock during a crisis or lots of blood loss. Nick was steady and had the ability to reel me in without me knowing he was reeling me in. I’ve been told I’m a handful.
    “So?” I asked.
    I heard his sigh on the other end of the line and felt bad for giving him a hard time. He sounded tired. “I just caught a bad one. Double homicide and there may be a third victim we haven’t found yet. There’s too much blood for only two bodies. I won’t make it to dinner. Maybe not until next Tuesday. Things aren’t pretty.”
    I grimaced at the thought of how much blood must be at the crime scene and decided maybe I wouldn’t eat again until next Tuesday too.
    “Not a problem,” I said. “Rosemarie is going to pinch hit for you.”
    “Thank God for the crime in this city. I almost felt guilty for cancelling.”
    I looked over at Rosemarie to see if she’d heard any of what Nick had said, but she was humming along to Cindy Lauper and checking her rearview mirror every five seconds. I’d just checked the side mirror myself and saw a non-descript beige Crown Vic merge into traffic from the onramp and settle in a couple of cars behind us.
    “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about why Rosemarie has a tail would you?” I asked. There was about three seconds of pregnant pause and that was enough for me to know the answer. And that he was probably going to lie.
    “Nope. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
    “I don’t know when I’ll be home. Call me if you need bail money.” He disconnected and I figured that was just as good as saying I love you.
    “You think I should try to lose them?” Rosemarie asked.
    Her eyes narrowed and her grip tightened on the wheel. The car lurched as her foot pressed a little harder on the pedal.
    “Or maybe we should just let them follow,” I said. “Maybe they’re not following you for the reasons you think. Maybe it’s a protection detail.”
    I mentally smacked myself in the head. No one would believe an unmarked Crown Vic was providing a protection detail on a woman who’d been questioned for murder.
    “You know, maybe you’re right,” she said, perking up a little. “Maybe Priscilla’s murderer wants to silence me since I’m probably the last person who saw her alive. I could be in real danger.”
    “Why would her murderer want to silence you? Did Priscilla say something?”
    “Only that she was impressed that I had the vaginal capability to burn out the motor on the merchandise. I do have superior muscle control. I could snap a twig right in two if I set my mind to it.”
    “Jesus,” I muttered under my breath and closed my eyes, trying to clear the mental image from my brain.
    We passed the Welcome to Whiskey Bayou—The First Drink’s On Us sign and the Crown Vic was still behind us. The great thing about small towns was that any outsiders stuck out like a sore thumb, and if the cop behind the wheel was brave enough to get out of the car the entire town would know his life story by the time we finished our hamburgers. That was also the bad thing about small towns.
    I’d been born and raised in Whiskey Bayou, just like my mother and her mother before her. It was one of those places