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‘The Iron Horse, down on Harbor Street,’ Vasquez replied.
Ripley checked her watch. ‘Two PM. He’s a day drinker.’
‘That mean something?’ asked Vasquez.
‘You ever met an alcoholic that wasn’t angry?’
‘Fair point. I’ll get some guys to head out with you. The Horse is a biker bar. Need to be careful in there.’
‘No,’ Ella insisted as she grabbed her jacket. ‘Cops will just draw attention to us. Me and Ripley can handle it.’
‘We’ll fit in like a glove,’ Ripley said. ‘Come on. If he's still there, we might be able to catch him before he slips away again.’
If their unsub continued with the same pattern he’d established so far, there could be another victim before the night was out. If Lucas Trent was indeed their man, he’d need to start making moves within the next few hours. That gave them a short window to nab him.
‘Let’s go,’ Ella said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Is it nineteen-eighty-five already?’ Ripley asked.
Ella surveyed the old tavern, she too feeling like she’d stepped into a bygone era. The Iron Horse was nestled between old brick buildings, its exterior rough and unwelcoming. Rows of bikes lined the front, and two mulleted gentlemen pored over an exposed motorcycle engine.
‘Appearances are deceiving. Bikers are a chill bunch. They just look the part.’
Ripley opened her door and said, ‘Never trust a man with a ponytail. That’s my advice.’
Ella got out of the car and did her best to look inconspicuous. Pistol concealed, badge hidden. ‘My aunt always told me never to marry a cop or a carny. Bikers were fair game.’
‘Let’s see for ourselves,’ said Ripley. ‘Remember what Lucas Trent looks like?’
‘I never forget a face.’
‘Good. Let’s get in and out without causing a scene.’
Ella shuffled up to the door, drawing the eyeballs of the two amateur mechanics tinkering with the bike outside. The front door announced their arrival with a jingle, as though all entrees needed to be vetted before gaining access.
Tobacco and stale beer permeated the atmosphere. Chatter momentarily dipped as a few curious glances came their way. The typical aura of a local bar, where new faces were as rare as an untouched pool table on a Friday night, was palpable. The patrons, momentarily distracted, soon returned to their conversations and drinks, the ambient noise resuming its steady hum.
Ella and Ripley moved through the bar, their presence a subtle disruption in the otherwise regular flow of the establishment. Ella's eyes flicked from face to face, searching for any sign of Lucas Trent. The bar drew Ripley like a magnetic force. The bartender, bald and bearded, leaned forward.
‘New faces, huh,’ he said.
Ripley, ever the conversationalist, took the reins. ‘Just scoping things out.’
‘Fine by me. What can I get you?’
‘Old fashioned,’ Ripley said.
‘And for your friend?’
Ella turned around. ‘Same.’
‘Coming up,’ the bartender said.
Ella's gaze landed on a corner of the bar, dimly lit and somewhat secluded. A lone figure sat there, nursing a drink, his back partially turned to them. Something about his posture, the set of his shoulders, matched the profile she had of Trent.
‘Mia, over there,’ she said.
