14 - J. T. Ellison [70]
It wasn’t unheard of. She was much more comfortable with the weapon than without, though she usually went with a small revolver in an ankle holster when she was off duty and out on the town.
She saw the bartender making a beeline toward her, his face contorted in anger. He pulled up short when he saw her shield.
“Sorry, Officer.” He held up both hands, as if she were trying to rob him on the street and had yelled “Put ’em up!”
“Lieutenant. That’s okay. And put your hands down. I’m not arresting you.” She shrugged back into the jacket. No sense advertising.
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. How about the next round on me?”
“No problem….” She left it open, and the man supplied his name.
“Jerry. I’m the bartender here.”
“I caught that. Thanks for understanding, Jerry. No need to buy a round.”
“No, I insist.” He disappeared, and Taylor looked at Sam, exasperated. All she wanted to do was drink a couple of beers, get the next two days over with, wrap up the cases and go to Europe. She was running out of patience with the whole scenario.
Sam just smiled and excused herself to go to the Ladies’.
Jerry returned with two beers and a sly look on his face. Taylor took a bottle of Miller Lite from him, then sat back, eyebrows raised. He obviously had something to get off his mind.
She was right.
Jerry leaned close while he handed Taylor her beer. “See that guy that just came in? Don’t look, but I think he was here the other night.”
“Really? My goodness, a repeat customer. In this neck of the woods. Imagine the odds.”
“No, you don’t get it. I mean he was here the night that little girl went missing.”
Taylor nearly dropped her bottle.
“What are you talking about? Which girl?”
“The little black-haired reporter. Jane. I think the paper said her last name was Macias. I don’t remember if the guy was in then, but I absolutely remember that he was here the night Jane disappeared.”
“What about the last victim, Giselle St. Claire? Was she in here, too?”
“Couldn’t say. I don’t remember what she looks like. Jane, I remember. She was a sweet kid. That’s not good, is it?” His face fell.
“Uh, Jerry? Did you tell anyone this?”
“Well, no. But I’m telling you now. Isn’t that enough? I just put it all together. I didn’t see him again, so I didn’t really think too much about it. And I don’t know if I want to get too involved, you know what I mean?”
He rolled up a sleeve and Taylor saw the ink, the homemade prison tattoos that covered his forearm. Yes, she understood entirely.
“Okay, Jerry. This is great. Thanks so much. Go back behind the bar now. My friend is coming back. We’ll take it from here.”
“She a cop, your friend? ’Cause I got a…bat, behind the counter.”
“The medical examiner, actually. But there’s a gaggle of good police next door, and we’re going to get their attention and have a chat with this guy. Okay? Now, go on back to the bar, you’re starting to look suspicious. And don’t worry.”
He went, and she sat back in her chair, looking at the man Jerry had pointed out.
He was at least six foot four, with brushed blond hair cut high and tight, as if he were military. She couldn’t see his face full on, just in profile. He sat comfortably, hands loose between his knees, not quite leaning on his forearms. He was strung tight, but not ready to snap. The door to the bar opened and a woman walked through. Taylor watched his body language, saw him open himself. It was almost imperceptible. The woman ignored him, walked right past and went to the bar. She plopped onto a stool, ordered a drink, lit up a cigarette.
The man glanced over his shoulder at the bar, and Taylor felt the waves of anger roll off him. The intensity of the emotion nearly took her breath away; it was overtly negative. Taylor was certain if Baldwin had been in the room, he would have felt it, too.
She felt her breath begin to quicken. The palpable animosity, the powerful frame, the casual yet hip sprung attitude… She glanced at Jerry, who was talking