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“Good.” She smiled and bit her lip.
A newcomer in a clean suit came up to the bar, set down his hat, and tossed a couple of bills on the polished wood. Rick nodded at the woman and went to take the order. Business was steady after that, and Rick served second and third rounds to men who’d come in after work and stuck around. New patrons arrived for after-dinner nightcaps. Rick worked through it all, drawing beers and pouring liquor, smiling politely when the older men called him “son” and “kid.”
He didn’t need the job. He just liked being around people now and then. He’d worked at bars before—bars, saloons, taverns—here and there, for almost two hundred years.
He expected the woman to finish quickly and march right out again, but she sipped the drink as if savoring the moment, wanting to spend time with the crowd. Avoiding solitude. Rick understood.
When a thin, flushed man who’d had maybe one drink too many sidled up to the bar and crept toward her like a cat on the prowl, Rick wasn’t surprised. He waited, watching for her signals. She might have been here to celebrate, but she might have been looking for more, and he wouldn’t interfere. But the man spoke—asking to buy her another drink—and the woman shook her head. When he pleaded, she tilted her body, turning her back to him. Then he put a hand on her shoulder and another under the bar, on her leg. She shoved.
Then Rick stood before them both. They hesitated midaction, blinking back at him.
“Sir, you really need to be going, don’t you?” Rick said.
“This isn’t any of your business,” the drunk said.
“If the lady wants to be left alone, you should leave her alone.” He caught the man’s gaze and twisted, just a bit. Put the warning in his voice, used a certain subtle tone, so that there was power in the words. If the man’s gaze clouded over, most onlookers would attribute it to the liquor.
The man pointed and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Rick put a little more focus in his gaze and the drunk blinked, confused.
“Go on, now,” Rick said.
The man nodded weakly, crushed his hat on his head, and stumbled to the door.
The woman watched him go, then turned back to Rick, her smile wondering. “That was amazing. How’d you do that?”
“You work behind the bar long enough, you develop a way with people.”
“You’ve been bartending a long time, then.”
Rick just smiled.
“Thanks for looking out for me,” she said.
“Not a problem.”
“I really didn’t come here looking for a date. I really did just want the drink.”
“I know.”
“But I wouldn’t say no. To a date. Just dinner or a picture or something. If the right guy asked.”
So, Rick asked. Her name was Helen.
RICK ANSWERED THE RESPONDING OFFICER’S QUESTIONS, THEN SAT IN THE armchair in the living room to wait for the detective to arrive. It took about forty-five minutes. In the meantime, officers and investigators passed in and out of the house, which seemed less and less Helen’s by the moment.
When the detective walked in, Rick stood to greet her. The woman was average height and build, and busy, always looking, taking in the scene. Her dark hair was tied in a short ponytail; she wore a dark suit and white shirt, nondescript. She dressed to blend in, but her air of authority made her stand out.
She saw him and frowned. “Oh hell. It’s you.”
“Detective Hardin,” he answered, amused at how unhappy she was to see him.
Jessi Hardin pointed at him. “Wait here.”
He sat back down and watched her continue on to the kitchen.
Half an hour later, coroners brought in a gurney, and Hardin returned to the living room. She pulled over a high-backed chair and set it across from him.
“I expected to see bite marks on her neck.”
