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She said, “I need you to talk to everyone in the bar and find out if anyone saw anything.”
The young officer said, “Do you want me to talk to them one at a time or as a group all at once?”
Sandy muttered, “God, give me strength.”
I chuckled at the frustration that universally afflicts experienced police officers dealing with rookies. I volunteered. “I can handle that, Sandy.”
Her smile was all I needed in the way of thanks.
Inside the Bear and Buffalo Wings sports bar, most of the TVs were already turned off. A bored bartender watched a rebroadcast of a Red Sox game on the TV over the bar.
A group of around ten people huddled around someone at a table in the corner of the room. As I walked closer, I realized they were all part of the group Sandy and I had talked to at the fire station.
Then I noticed they were all listening to one person. He looked up at me with sharp brown eyes above a ruddy nose.
It was Tom Bacon. Great.
Chapter 77
Tom Bacon didn’t waste any time when he looked at me and said, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Helping Sandy figure out who shot your friend out there. But looking at this group, and knowing what you’re all riled up about, I have to ask one question.”
“What would that be?”
“I think I know the answer, but did you announce this meeting to the public?”
Tom Bacon looked at me, his face flushed an angry red. “Yeah—on Facebook. Why?”
“So if someone wanted to send a message, he knew exactly where and when all of you would be together. That was very thoughtful of you to inform him.”
“So Dell Streeter is behind this.”
“No, he wasn’t. I was at his house during the shooting, and he answered the door right afterward.”
“But he had someone shoot Mickey, right?”
I had already said too much. It was never a good idea for a cop to reinforce a conspiracy theory. Especially when the people putting the theory together were a bunch of well-armed crackpots who were already pissed off.
Bacon said, “Well, what do you think? Is Dell Streeter behind this?”
“The shooting is being investigated. The local police are doing everything they can.”
“Just like they did when they were looking for my son? Just like they’re doing investigating his death? Remind me, Bennett. How far did you get on that case?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bacon. We really are doing everything we can.” What I wanted to say was, Hey, I don’t even work here. But I didn’t want to cause Sandy any grief.
Then the big guy, Anthony, who’d accused Sandy and me of being crooked, stepped up and said, “Dell Streeter didn’t pay you enough to keep him safe at his own house.”
Again, I bit my tongue.
Anthony said, “We’re going to make you earn every penny of it. A good man like Mickey Bale is gunned down, and you won’t do a thing about it.”
I said, “What do you think we’re doing right now?”
“By talking to us? No one in this room shot Mickey.”
“I’m trying to find out if anyone saw anything that could help us. Unless you have a better idea of what I should do.”
