A Killing Night Part 7

"We will be in touch, Mr. Freeman. Even though I suspect them other boys ain't gonna say much more than you when they're able," he said, handing me back the originals.

"Officer Reyes will give you a ride back to your vehicle."

I thanked him and dumped the ice pack into his trash can before standing.

"To be honest, sir," Rhodes said before stepping out of the way, "I don't like a stink in my backyard that I don't know the source of. So I hope this one blows away 'fore I step in it."

"That's honest enough, Sergeant," I said, and left with my escort.

CHAPTER 8.

The new bartender's name was Marci and once he learned her s.h.i.+ft he started hitting it regularly. He always tried to get the seat at the end of the bar, so he could use the mirrors. By now she would notice him coming through the door and have an open beer waiting.

"I'm impressed," he said the first time she remembered his brand. She'd given him that quizzical look, like she wasn't sure what the compliment was for. They liked compliments, he knew, unless they were rude.

"That you'd remember," he said, tipping the bottle. She smiled and he liked the shape of her mouth.

There was a knot of people at the middle of the bar, voices already cranked up with liquor, the one guy telling stories, impressing the others. He sipped his beer, looking up at the television for a minute and then watching Marci's legs when she went to the far end to wait on one of the old farts down there nursing their shots. He made sure he didn't let her notice him staring at her when she bent over the bar to hear a customer better and gave them all a better look at her cleavage. She wasn't dumb, he thought. Girl knows where the power is.

She came back his way, noticing the empty he'd slid into the trough.

"So, how was your day?" she said.

"Good. Kept busy. Met some new people. Made some money. No complaints," he said, being pleasant. They liked upbeat.

"How about you?" he said. They liked it to be about them.

"I went to the beach," she said proudly. "I swore that when I left Minneapolis I'd hit the beach every day."

He filed Minnesota away in his head. Long way from home.

"You, uh, do something different?" he said, waving his fingers around his own head but looking into her eyes. She gave him the quizzical look again.

"No. Oh, the ponytail?" she said, pulling the blonde whip of hair over her shoulder. "You like it?"

"Yeah, I think so," he said. "Shows off the new tan."

She smiled again and when someone motioned to her from down the bar she kind of bounced away, pleased.

He drank his beer, played it cool. An occasional customer would nod at him in recognition and he would nod back, but always turn away. He was only here to get to know one person. He wasn't here to make friends. He looked straight ahead, used the mirrors to watch the rest of the room. The storyteller down the bar had taken over, rooster in the house, he thought. The two women in the group were already a drink over their limit and he was working to impress them. That's when the brothers arrived.

He heard the motorcycle come rapping up outside, the driver giving the throttle an extra twist of rpm's to announce himself. The first one in entered with a grin, hair blown back, T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans, neither of them black. He worked his way past the group at the middle of the bar and took the stool next to the quiet man. The second one entered with an amphetamine smile. He went straight to the rail.

"Hey, little blondie, come on down here with a bottle of Jack," he said, loud enough to make sure everyone noticed.

Marci took a shot gla.s.s with her. The head of the middle group turned too quickly and took in the character: Big guy, hair ruffled up from the wind, wearing the requisite black vest over black T- s.h.i.+rt. No jewelry but the poorly done, single-color prison tattoo was a dead giveaway to the quiet man, but he sipped his beer, watched the smaller, calmer brother next to him in the mirror and listened.

The group turned back to their conversation while the speedballer downed two shots of Jack Daniel's and pointed Marci down to where his brother was putting down the money. He then insinuated himself on the gathering in between.

"Well ain't this a boring party," he squawked and draped a meaty arm over one of the women's shoulders.

"Christ, this isn't gonna last long," said the brother, maybe to himself, maybe to the quiet man who was looking ahead into the mirror. The brother went to put money into the juke and the volume of some overplayed rock song obscured the conversation going on down in the group. The quiet man snuck a look at Marci, who caught his eye and rolled her own. When the music stopped the argument seemed to ratchet up, like it was trying to fill the void. Suddenly the speeder and the rooster were facing off.

"You're a f.u.c.king liar, man. You didn't do no three years in f.u.c.king Starke," the big brother was yapping.

The rooster had turned but was leaning back, both elbows still against the bar.

"I've been inside," he said. "And I don't give a s.h.i.+t if you don't believe it."

"And I'm calling you a lyin' b.i.t.c.h," said the speeder, lowering his voice and sneering the words. "I'm out three months and the only way you was inside was as somebody's b.i.t.c.h."

The quiet man was watching the speeder in the back mirror now, waiting to see if a blade was going to come out of a back pocket. Marci stepped up on a beer case behind the bar and said: "Come on guys, settle down, all right. Settle down, we'll have one on the house."

The rooster hadn't moved his elbows. Dumb a.s.s, thought the quiet man.

"See!" yelped the speeder. "Proof's right there. n.o.body inside gets called somebody's b.i.t.c.h and then just stands there."

The guy strutted away from the group, point made, and came over to his brother, who was keeping his head low. "s.h.i.+t, Bobby. Thought that b.i.t.c.h was gonna bend over for me right there," Speeder said, sn.i.g.g.e.ring and taking one of his brother's shots off the bar.

The quiet man could see him in the mirror and tell he was still excited by his low-life conquest. His shoulders twitching, eyes jumping.

"So, who we got here, brother Bob? This a friend of yours?"

"Yeah, he's a old friend. Drinkin' buddy, right?"

The brother's voice was nervous. He'd probably spent his whole life trying to avoid getting sucked into his s.h.i.+t-head sibling's trouble.

"Well, h.e.l.l, drinkin' buddy. How bout linin' up some drinks, then?" the speeder said, leaning into the quiet man and putting a pale forearm on his shoulder.

The stench of dried sweat came off him, mixed with the sweet sting of gasoline and exhaust. When the speeder removed his arm to turn and ogle and insult another woman pa.s.sing through the bar the quiet man caught Marci's eye and he ordered a single shot of Maker's Mark. When she set it in front of him, he reached into his pocket as if to pay but brought out his police badge folder instead. He turned the s.h.i.+eld face up and put it next to the shot, the silver of the official department seal glinting in the overhead lights.

Brother Bobby saw it first and looked at the side of the quiet man's face. The quiet man was still staring straight ahead and in a low voice he said: "Tell your f.u.c.king convict brother if he touches me again he's going back in the slam and the trip won't be pretty."

Bobby found the quiet man's eyes in the mirror and got up from his stool.

"Come on, Davey. Let's get outta here, man. This place is a dive," he said to the speeder, putting his body in between his brother and the bar and moving him toward the door.

"Come on. This is dead, man. We'll go down to the Riptide and score some s.h.i.+t and some real women who want to party."

Bobby was working him fast, not giving his brother a chance to object or latch on to anything else to spit his bile on. When the rip of the motorcycle engine sounded and the screech of tire on asphalt faded, the entire bar seemed to exhale.

When Marci turned back to the quiet man the badge was gone and he was sipping his whiskey. She took the bottle off the back counter and said: "This one's on the house."

He finished the shot and set it down and she poured.

"Thanks," he said. "That's sweet of you."

She had that quizzical look on her face.

"You're a cop?" she said softly.

"Shhh," he answered, putting a finger to his lips.

She smiled and turned away, tossing that tail of golden curls over her shoulder. He sipped the new whiskey and smiled to himself and whispered: "Got her."

CHAPTER 9.

I was on the beach with a borrowed straw hat on my head and sitting under a wide umbrella. The breeze had gone flat and the ocean surface was calm and rolling like the slow swelling hide of some big sleeping animal. was on the beach with a borrowed straw hat on my head and sitting under a wide umbrella. The breeze had gone flat and the ocean surface was calm and rolling like the slow swelling hide of some big sleeping animal.

I'd brought two sand chairs down after calling Richards and arranging to meet her here. My skull was still throbbing. I'd washed the blood out of my hair in the shower and poured peroxide on the wound last night. My attempt at a bandage came off during a twisting, turning sleep so I elected to leave it open to the sea air. A sure cure for open cuts, according to all those grandmothers who never lived near the ocean.

I was reading more of Adams's years in France when I heard her sharp whistle. I turned and Richards was up on the bulkhead, two fingers p.r.o.nged into her mouth, the other hand shading her eyes against the morning sun. She waved me up but I shook my head and waved her down. Then I watched all her body language of frustration as she took off her business pumps and made her way down the wooden stairs in her dark slacks. She'd be p.i.s.sed. But I never liked being called to someone's side like a dog to its master. She knew that, didn't she?

"Good morning," I said. "Too nice out here to resist. Here, I brought you down a chair."

If she was angry, she swallowed it and sat down in the low chair in the shade, taking obvious care to brush away any sand.

"How's the head?"

"Only hurts when I laugh." I tapped the straw hat and smiled.

"Well. Your carjackers aren't laughing. Sergeant Rhodes tells me one guy had to have his jaw wired and the other has four broken ribs."

There was no question in the statement. So I didn't reply.

"He says he's doubtful that you would be able to cause such damage alone, despite your extensive law enforcement background."

It still wasn't a question.

"Neither one of these gentlemen wanted to bring charges against you and refused to give statements. I told Rhodes that you'd probably do the same."

She was quiet and might have been listening to the brush of water on sand but I doubted it.

"I already gave him a statement," I said.

"Right. That you surprised them while they were breaking into your truck and they attacked you. You alone."

This time she waited me out. I knew what she wanted.

"I talked with O'Shea in Archie's," I said.

"And?"

"He was hard to read. It's been a while," I said, avoiding her eyes. "He admits he hops a lot of local bars. He admits he knew Amy Strauss.h.i.+em. He went out with her. And he has no idea where she is."

"He brought it up?"

"Sherry, he saw me coming a mile away," I said. "Just like he made you."

She looked, out at the water, seeing some vision stuck in her head, thinking.

"I know you must have interviewed other bartenders, managers? Did they give you anything on O'Shea? Or anybody else you looked at?" I said "Christ, Max. As soon as you put the idea of a serial abductor in their heads they start thinking gargoyle. Who's the ugliest, creepiest guy in the room," she said. "This generation doesn't even know who Ted Bundy was."

But they do know about the Gainesville Killer who slaughtered three University of Florida coeds and took out a boyfriend in the process. Give them some credit, I thought, but kept my mouth shut.

"The guy that looks like Freddie Kruger isn't going to get anywhere close to these women," she said.

I'd worked with detectives who focused on their convictions before, refused to back up and look wide.

"Look," I said. "O'Shea said he dated lots of women. You talk to any of them?"

"A few."

"He scare them?"

"No. They went out with him, had a good time on a date or two. Some he stayed friends with. Some he never called back."

I concentrated on not even moving my chin. She was watching for "I told you so."

"Maybe they weren't what he was after," she finally said.

"The missing girls have anything else in common?" I said. "Physically? Emotionally? Were they addicts?"

"No, G.o.ddammit! They were smart, lonely women who didn't have close families and were bartenders, Max."

I shut up and let her fume. She'd probably done this same dance with her supervisors half a dozen times. I could tell she was out there on her own on this one, obsessed. Maybe too much.

"The guy takes advantage of that loneliness, Max. The woman behind the bar is the one who runs the room and all the men who want a drink and a peek at her a.s.s," she said and I was getting uncomfortable with the way she was staring out at the sea. "I see him as a guy who doesn't act like the others. He's smart. It's like a challenge to him. He's nonthreatening, likable even. He brings their guard down somehow. Just like O'Shea."

"And then what?" I said.

She didn't answer.

"Kills them for the thrill and disposes of their bodies without a trace? That's kind of Jekyll and Hyde," I said.

"Are you denying that O'Shea is a violent man, Max?" she said. "You saw him. You saw him boot stomp that guy last night. That was the two of you in the street, wasn't it?"