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“It’s going. You all right?”
“Good.” Now she knew he was fine, she said, “I’m going to follow another lead that came in, but I’ll catch up with you in a bit at the station.”
“Sure.”
“You didn’t just happen to try calling me a minute ago, did you?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason.” She ended the call, dread pricking her flesh. It must have been a wrong number. No sense getting all worked up over nothing.
She rolled the sedan into the parking lot for Happy Time in record time, mainly because she drove a good stretch at fifteen to twenty over the speed limit.
This bar would certainly attract the same clientele as Denver’s Motel. It was a much sadder sight than the Tipsy Moose in Woodbridge, day or night. In fact, Happy Time was in an old, rundown building and gave the impression its happy times were all in the past. It was nearing six thirty, and there were a few cars in the lot.
Inside, country music was playing over the speakers and three drunken patrons were seated on stools at the bar. One of the men ogled her with red-rimmed eyes and lifted his glass with a couple fingers’ full of amber liquid to her in a toast gesture.
She ignored him, approached the bar, and pulled her badge when the tender came toward her.
He was broad and tall, easily over six feet, but at the sight of her badge, his shoulders dipped, and he swept a hand through his hair. “We’re legal here. Have our license.”
“Do you think I’m here to cite you for health-code violations? Although, putting your hands in your hair isn’t exactly hygienic. I’m Detective Steele with Homicide, Prince William County PD, and you are?”
“Not interested.”
“Yeah, see, it doesn’t work that way. Your bar served a man last night and that man’s now dead.”
The drunks within earshot lowered their drinks. One stopped with his glass to his lips. The oldest of the three had soft-blue eyes but the weathered face of a man who’d had a hard life.
The bartender waved a hand, dismissing the hinted-at correlation between a man’s death and the bar. His customers didn’t seem to need much encouragement and returned to draining their drinks.
Amanda brought up a picture of Palmer, from the crime scene, on her phone.
“Ah, Jes—” He stopped midway through the blasphemy under her glare.
“Do you recognize him?” She showed him Palmer’s DMV photo.
“Sure.”
“Anything else you’d like to add? For example, was he alone or with someone? Was he in a good mood? A bad mood? Celebrating or wallowing?”
“I didn’t chat him up, but he was alone.”
“When did he show up here?”
“Not his keeper.”
“Just give me a rough time.”
“Six.”
“In the evening?”
“It certainly wasn’t in the morning.”
So if Palmer had been with someone just before Lorraine’s shift ended at six, as Lorraine had told them, what had happened to Freddy—if it had indeed been him? “You keep giving me attitude, I just might turn you over to the health board.” She didn’t need much encouragement when it came to this place.
He put up his hands.
