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her water with the thin pink straw that bobbed next to the lemon wedge. “I’m not in the market for hearsay unless there’s an element of corroboration.”
    Fernandez lifted two fingers to the bartender before meeting her eyes once more. “I can neither confirm nor refute anything she claims. I can, however,” he added when Casey would have interrupted, “attest that this woman has lived at the same address, used the same name and operated the same business for several years. Her former lover was a nephew of a lady I once knew very well.” He leaned even closer as he said the last. “This claim is nothing new and I have never heard rumors to the contrary. Although, I have heard that the name Slade Keaton is an alias. Regrettably, I have no knowledge of his given name.”
    A warning fired in Casey’s veins. This was another of those coincidences Lucas had spoken of. A man who had this level of knowledge about someone who knew Keaton just happened to live in the town where Victoria and Lucas had visited and been attacked. Not so likely. More significant, the man— Fernandez—just happened to be the sort who would sell his own mother’s soul to the devil if the price was right. Too convenient.
    The bartender plopped two shot glasses glistening with golden tequila on the counter in front of Fernandez. He nodded his approval before sliding one toward Casey. “A toast to our mutually beneficial business.” He gestured to the waiting glass. “This is the best tequila in all the land.”
    Casey reached past the glass he’d slid her way and snagged the one he’d kept for himself. She held it up. “Salute.”
    Another of those charming laughs echoed from him as he lifted the glass she’d refused and echoed her toast before downing the contents in a single swallow.
    Casey knocked back the shot of tequila then honed in on his dark watchful gaze. “I need a name and an address. As previously agreed, half the money up front, the other half when I confirm your uncorroborated claims about her identity.”
    “Yes, those are the previously agreed terms.” Fernandez placed the glass on the counter. “For certain I would be most happy to complete our business tonight. But…” He sighed. Casey didn’t hear the sound but she saw the exaggerated inhale-and-exhale. “Unfortunately I cannot do business with you when you are cursed with a tracker.” He threw up his hands. “Particularly one wanting the same information as you. I find myself in a very—as you Americans say—sticky situation.”
    Casey sat up straighter, her instincts going on alert. “What’re you talking about, Fernandez?” She had known this was too easy. Her pulse rate elevated.
    “The gringo at the back table dressed in the blue jacket and snakeskin boots.”
    She glanced in that direction. In three seconds flat she noted several things about the man. Not much older than her, late twenties, thirty. Dark hair. He looked American, then again that was not unusual in Pozos. Most of the artists who’d taken up residence were American. But this one had been asking about Keaton.
    And he was watching Casey.
    “Shake your American friend,” Fernandez tossed at her, “and we can do business.”
    Her contact ambled away, merging with the other patrons and falling into conversation as if he’d never left the festivities.
    Who the heck was this party crasher? She glared openly at the stranger in the blue jacket and hoped he felt the animosity all the way across the smoky room.
    Only one way to find out. Casey snagged a bill from her shoulder bag and deposited it on the bar. She weaved her way through the tables and standing patrons until she reached the guy’s table. He watched her coming, making no move to escape a confrontation or to even stand to greet her, for that matter. Where were all the men like Lucas and her uncle Thomas?
    Casey flattened her palms on the stranger’s table and leaned down close enough to identify the nice aftershave he wore.