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“Did she attend AA meetings?”
“We think so, but you know that’s hard to say. They take both the alcoholism and the anonymity pretty seriously. Tight-lipped organization. That’s the whole point.”
“But people talk. Even people who go to meetings.” Settler retook her chair as Martinez stood up. She held up a finger, indicating she needed to talk to him, and he rested a hip against the edge of her desk and eavesdropped on her end of the conversation.
“The only thing of interest was that there was a guy who came in about two weeks ago,” Rosamie added. “Someone the bartender didn’t recognize, not a regular. According to Chuck, the guy ordered a beer and nursed it while he watched the show. At that time, Upgarde was on stage belting out a Madonna number that was her favorite—‘Papa Don’t Preach’—along with some others, which he didn’t remember. She always sang songs with a moving beat, not much for ballads like some of the more serious karaoke-ers. Anyway, Chuck noticed because a guy walked over to her table after she’d been onstage a couple of times and struck up a conversation with her. Karen kind of brushed him off—at least that’s the way it seemed to Chuck. But soon after she left, the stranger did, too. Didn’t wait for his tab, just left enough money to cover the drinks and took off.”
“In a hurry to go after her?”
“Maybe. The guy didn’t use a debit or credit card, just cash, and Chuck is pretty certain he’d never seen him before or since. He couldn’t give that great of a description of him except that he was probably in his late forties, maybe early fifties, and dressed like we all do up here, in a dark sweatshirt and jeans, jacket with a hood. The only odd thing about him was that the dude was wearing tinted glasses and the bar is pretty dark, which is the reason Chuck noticed him. Oh, and even though he had a hood on his jacket, he wore a baseball cap instead. Mariners. Which eliminates no one in this town.”
“Any footage of the bar that night?”
“They have cameras, but they’re on a forty-eight-hour loop, and this was several weeks ago.”
Damn. What was it with the cameras on this case? Settler thought as she glanced at the computer monitor with the poor-quality image. Either they weren’t working, the film had been erased, or the pictures weren’t clear.
“E-mail me Chuck’s full name and contact info,” she said to Ugali.
“You got it.”
They talked for another ten minutes, and Settler asked about Rosamie’s twin daughters who were six now—“going on thirteen; let me tell you they sure grow up fast.” Then, with Rosamie’s promise to let her know if she found out anything else about the victim, she ended the call and turned to Martinez.
“Any chance there’s a Mariners baseball cap in that photo?”
He snorted a laugh. “I can’t even tell if there’s a person in the shot, let alone determine what’s on his head.”
“I know, but . . .” She was squinting at the image, and he was right, she couldn’t tell if she was looking at a man, a woman, a shadow, a ghost, or nothing at all. “Ten to one, that’s a person. We need to double-check anyone on that floor.”
“Got a junior on it already.”
“Who?”
“Mina Camp.”
“Okay.” Camp was new to the department, fresh out of college, but eager and efficient, as well as a tech wizard.
“What did your friend up in Seattle say?”
“That we don’t know enough about Upgarde. Yet. And there’s an unidentified male we need to find.”
“One wearing a Mariners baseball cap?”
“Yep.” Settler filled Martinez in on the conversation as an e-mail from Ugali arrived. It included the bartender’s name, cell phone, and place of business: Buford’s Bar and Grill, Chuck Buford, proprietor.
* * *
The Marksman loaded up, stowing his equipment in his vehicle. He’d cleaned and oiled his weapons, a rifle for long distance and, if needed, a pistol for close up, then made certain he had an adequate supply of ammo. Now he placed the guns and extra clips in their respective cases in the back of his SUV.
He had another job to do, so he’d stay another day or two, but it would feel good to leave the crappy fleabag of a motel in Oakland and get to work again. As he climbed behind the wheel, he rolled his shoulders to release some tension, then fired up the Ford. The engine caught almost instantly, a good sign.
He had to be careful, he thought, as he backed out of his parking slot and eyed the brightly lit reception area where that kid, barely twenty, was working the counter and chatting up a woman with a roller bag who was registering.
No one else was loitering on the porch in the rainy dusk, not even someone out for a smoke. No one would be able to tell when he’d come and gone, and he knew that this particular “no-tell/motel” had only one surveillance camera, and it worked only part of the time, due largely to his own efforts whenever he stayed here. He knew his way around technology, had kept abreast of the latest security devices as well. It all came in handy. But this was his last night at the Baysider, which wasn’t anywhere near the bay. He never stayed anywhere too long, didn’t want anyone to get a good look at him, needed no one remembering him, or pointing to him, or even wondering about him. He had to be a ghost, nothing more substantial. At least when he was working. He would return back here after the job to clean up, then wait to come down from the high that followed a killing, maybe grab a little shut-eye, if possible, then handle the next job and check out of the Baysider for good. He would never return. There were enough cheap motels that he never had to occupy the same space twice.
As he drove out of the lot, he whistled under his breath, and the songs of his youth, ingrained in him from dear old granny, played through his brain again. The “little light song,” as he thought of it, was one of his favorites, and it rolled easily through his gray matter. He tingled a little inside. It felt good to be working again, and he felt more than a little elation at the thought of taking care of some old loose ends.
He crossed the bridge and turned on the GPS tracker he’d placed under the bumper of Remmi Storm’s Subaru. Seconds later, on the screen, a blinking dot told him exactly where she was. Not only did he know where she was, but someone else did as well. This particular bug could be accessed by an app where more than one user was able to view the location.
