and got up from his stool.
“Come on, Davey. Let’s get outta here, man. This place is a dive,” he said to the speeder, putting his body in between his brother and the bar and moving him toward the door.
“Come on. This is dead, man. We’ll go down to the Riptide and score some shit and some real women who want to party.”
Bobby was working him fast, not giving his brother a chance to object or latch on to anything else to spit his bile on. When the rip of the motorcycle engine sounded and the screech of tire on asphalt faded, the entire bar seemed to exhale.
When Marci turned back to the quiet man the badge was gone and he was sipping his whiskey. She took the bottle off the back counter and said: “This one’s on the house.”
He finished the shot and set it down and she poured.
“Thanks,” he said. “That’s sweet of you.”
She had that quizzical look on her face.
“You’re a cop?” she said softly.
“Shhh,” he answered, putting a finger to his lips.
She smiled and turned away, tossing that tail of golden curls over her shoulder. He sipped the new whiskey and smiled to himself and whispered: “Got her.”
CHAPTER 9
I was on the beach with a borrowed straw hat on my head and sitting under a wide umbrella. The breeze had gone flat and the ocean surface was calm and rolling like the slow swelling hide of some big sleeping animal.
I’d brought two sand chairs down after calling Richards and arranging to meet her here. My skull was still throbbing. I’d washed the blood out of my hair in the shower and poured peroxide on the wound last night. My attempt at a bandage came off during a twisting, turning sleep so I elected to leave it open to the sea air. A sure cure for open cuts, according to all those grandmothers who never lived near the ocean.
I was reading more of Adams’s years in France when I heard her sharp whistle. I turned and Richards was up on the bulkhead, two fingers pronged into her mouth, the other hand shading her eyes against the morning sun. She waved me up but I shook my head and waved her down. Then I watched all her body language of frustration as she took off her business pumps and made her way down the wooden stairs in her dark slacks. She’d be pissed. But I never liked being called to someone’s side like a dog to its master. She knew that, didn’t she?
“Good morning,” I said. “Too nice out here to resist. Here, I brought you down a chair.”
If she was angry, she swallowed it and sat down in the low chair in the shade, taking obvious care to brush away any sand.
“How’s the head?”
“Only hurts when I laugh.” I tapped the straw hat and smiled.
“Well. Your carjackers aren’t laughing. Sergeant Rhodes tells me one guy had to have his jaw wired and the other has four broken ribs.”
There was no question in the statement. So I didn’t reply.
“He says he’s doubtful that you would be able to cause such damage alone, despite your extensive law enforcement background.”
It still wasn’t a question.
“Neither one of these gentlemen wanted to bring charges against you and refused to give statements. I told Rhodes that you’d probably do the same.”
She was quiet and might have been listening to the brush of water on sand but I doubted it.
“I already gave him a statement,” I said.
“Right. That you surprised them while they were breaking into your truck and they attacked you. You alone.”
This time she waited me out. I knew what she wanted.
“I talked with O’Shea in Archie’s,” I said.
“And?”
“He was hard to read. It’s been a while,” I said, avoiding her eyes. “He admits he hops a lot of local bars. He admits he knew Amy Strausshiem. He went out with her. And he has no idea where she is.”
“He brought it up?”
“Sherry, he saw me coming a mile away,” I said. “Just like he made you.”
She looked, out at the water, seeing some vision stuck in her head, thinking.
“I know you must have interviewed other bartenders, managers? Did they give you anything on O’Shea? Or anybody else you looked at?” I said
“Christ, Max. As soon as you put the idea of a serial abductor in their heads they start thinking gargoyle. Who’s the ugliest, creepiest guy in the room,” she said. “This generation doesn’t even know who Ted Bundy was.”
But they do