Page 50 of Rage

“Uh … she was here earlier, too.”

My interest surges. “Where?”

“Been kind of busy,” he says. “Can’t keep an eye on the girls and do my job at the same time, you know?”

“What’s Cassidy’s last name?”

He shakes his head. “Everyone calls her Cass.”

“Hey, Robbie!” A customer at the end of the bar raises his hand. “We need two beers down here!”

Mouthing “Sorry” to me, the barkeep hustles away.

I’m waiting for him to return, thinking about checking the restroom, when a hand comes down on my shoulder. For an instant, I think T.J. has arrived. I glance left to see the bouncer I met last time I was here.

His hand slides off my shoulder. “You’re back,” he says.

“I’m looking for your boss,” I say, hoping to keep him from throwing me out.

“Isn’t everyone?” He laughs, but it’s a nasty sound. “He went home for the night.”

“What about the manager?”

Frowning, he looks down at the bar in front of me. “Same rules as before, Ms. Chief of Police. No drink. No stay.”

I’m aware of the bartender eyeing us as he serves up another trio of drafts. My nod catches his attention. “Coffee,” I tell him. “Black.”

The bouncer grins nastily. “I gotta get back to work,” he tells me. “Don’t make me come back.”

I stare at him, saying nothing.

Giving the bartender a final look, the bouncer turns away and starts toward the front door.

“Sorry.” Sending me a rueful look, the bartender snags a Styrofoam cup from beneath the bar and pours from a glass carafe. “For the record, he’s an asshole.” He’s grinning when he sets the cup in front of me. “It’s fresh, by the way.”

“Thank you.” I reach for my wallet.

He raises his hands. “On the house.”

Pirouetting, he hoists two mugs from a freezer beneath the bar and shoves them beneath the tap.

“If you’re looking for Angelica, check the break area out back.”

I swivel at the sound of a female voice to see a scantily clad server, a tray loaded with drinks upraised to ear level, smiling at me. “She’s a smoker,” the woman says. “There’s a privacy fence out by the dumpster. She’s there.”

“What about Cassidy?”

Her brows furrow, but she seems to be more focused on her surroundings than me or my questions. “Heard she quit.”

“Do you know her last name?”

“No idea.”

Before I can ask another question, she spins and melts into the crowd.

Turning back to the bar, I lay down a ten-dollar bill, pick up the coffee, and start toward the door. I sip coffee as I make my way through the crowd and take the exit. Outside, men and women and couples, laughing and drinking, brush past as I take the steps to the sidewalk. I scan the lot for T.J.’s cruiser as I take the walkway to the corner, but there’s no sign of him. I round the corner and enter the rear lot. I immediately spot the six-foot-tall privacy fence.

The gate is closed. I go to it, lift the latch. “Angelica?” I say as I push it open. “Cassidy?”