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"Did they do anything that struck you as suspicious?"
The man glares at her and sighs. The question seems stupid to him.
"No," he replies firmly. "I'm a busy man, alright? I can't keep track of anything other than serving tables."
Cruz Ortega looks at him, blinks a couple of times, and continues with her questioning.
"One of them claims his friend left his car keys on the table, along with his wallet and phone. Did you notice that?"
"Yes," he answers quickly. "I had to ask him to clear it all when I served them the first time. The guy left it in the middle of the table like it was nothing. And when I asked him to make room, he just pushed it to the corner. Seemed careless, you know? Nowadays, nobody does that, especially leaving it on the corner of the table facing the aisle, where anyone could walk by and swipe your wallet without you noticing."
Cruz Ortega wholeheartedly agrees with the man, who, by the way, hasn't offered her a glass of water to drink. She finds him rude, and though she wouldn't accept it despite having a dry mouth, she thinks it would have been a nice gesture on his part.
"Until what time were they there?"
"I couldn't tell you. They stayed a long time, maybe until three in the morning or a bit later."
"And during all that time, they didn't talk to anyone?"
"No."
"I'd appreciate it if you took your time. Any detail you can remember is important."
"Why don't you ask them?" he asks with annoyance.
"Because one is dead, the other in a coma, and the third, between the alcohol he consumed here and the blows to his head, has enough trouble remembering his own name."
The man sighs and looks at the ceiling as if he could find some answer up there to make that pesky and impertinent cop leave his house. He searches his mind for anything. Thinks about all the people in his bar last night, packed since it was Friday, and then remembers something, but it seems like a trivial detail.
"There was, well, no. I don't think..."
"It's impossible that means nothing," he thinks, but the sergeant disagrees.
"What was it?"
"Nothing, it's nonsense," he downplays, looking back at the ceiling.
"Share it with me, and I'll decide if it's nonsense or not, please."
The man yawns, his mouth stretching so wide that Cruz fears his jaw might dislocate. She sees a thread of drool stretching from his lower to upper teeth, feeling a disgust so intense that, for the first time in her life, and perhaps in human history, one person's yawn doesn't transfer to another.
"They talked briefly to a couple of women there, but it was just a moment."
"A couple of women? Were they bar regulars? Had you seen them before? Why did that catch your attention?" the sergeant fires questions like a machine gun.
"I didn't say it caught my attention," the man grumbles, annoyed. "You asked me to tell you any detail I remembered."
"And you specifically told me that," Cruz interrupts him. "If you noticed them, it was for a reason."
This time, he interrupts her.
"Of course, I noticed. They were hot, the whole damn bar noticed, just like they would if you walked in."
The sergeant looks embarrassed. It's not the first time someone she interrogates or arrests makes reference to her good looks, but it's something she can't get used to and infuriates her.
"Weren't they regular customers?" she asks, redirecting the conversation.
"No, not at all. I hadn't seen those two in my life; I'd remember."
