I couldn’t rule out Adam’s sister, Trina, either. According to the case files, she hated Chelsea and hadn’t wanted her brother to marry her. Why? Was it reason enough to have given her a motive? I’d have to find out.
And then there was Adam. If Chelsea had been blackmailing him, as rumored, then he may have had the strongest motive of them all. And that’s what scared me.
The ride to Cove Beach on Monday morning was piloted not by Jennifer or J.T. but by Brody Weston, Jennifer’s cousin. As he helped me on board, I tried to remember Brody’s story. He’d been orphaned as a toddler and had come to live with Jennifer’s family. In a way he was more like a brother to Jennifer. But, to my delight, Brody was nothing like his cousin. Nor was he like J.T.
Courteous from the moment I stepped on the ferry, he asked a few perfunctory questions and then left me alone. This was just as well since I was stressing out.
After all, I was heading to Billy’s—not the nicest place around—to more or less conduct an interrogation. And I had no experience in questioning people. Sure, I’d written enough about it, but I had no idea how to effectively do it in real life, especially without arousing suspicions. I had no great plan. I was just going to wing it and hope I could pull it off.
Once we reached the mainland, Brody was sweet enough to help me back my car out of the garage by the dock. After thanking him, I headed over to Harbourtown.
Billy’s was located in a warehouse district down by the river docks. Not the greatest part of town. The place itself was little more than a rundown, wooden shack that someone, probably drunk, had thought to paint a garish shade of purple. I shook my head as I drove by the entrance. The name “Billy’s” was spelled out in big, red script letters that scrolled across the front edge of the roof. It looked like each letter was wired to light up at night, though, based on their condition, they were probably a fire hazard. The dot on the “i” was missing, and the “s” was listing forward, ready to topple over if a good, strong wind kicked up.
I parked around the side of the building behind the only other vehicle in sight, a motorcycle. When I reached the propped-open front door, the “s” creaked ominously above my head, making me hesitate. Maybe it was a sign to scrap this crazy plan? As I stood in the entrance, the smell of stale beer and sweat wafted out. But there was something more, something base and vile—Billy’s reeked of desperation.
A part of me wanted to get back in my car and drive away, but I was here for a reason. So I went in. There was a guy—way too young to be Old Carl—wiping the top of the dark oak bar with a dingy-looking cloth that had seen better days. He was humming along to an old seventies song—something about lying eyes—as he lazily worked the rag down the length of the bar.
He looked up as I approached and, upon noticing he had a potential customer, reached below the bar and turned down the music. “Oh, hey. What can I getcha, Miss?” he asked, a stringy swath of dark hair falling across his gaunt face.
“Just water would be fine,” I replied, as I pulled out one of several wooden bar stools and sat down.
The too-skinny bartender flipped the hair from his face and eyed me dubiously, so I hastily changed my order to a beer. He nodded approvingly and then made his way down to a silver cooler at the other end of the bar. “Glass?” he called back as he reached into the cooler.
“Just the bottle is fine,” I replied, glancing around to get a lay of the land, so to speak.
There was a back room off to the left, housing several pool tables and a few of those dart machine games. A sign with an arrow was taped to the wall, and someone had written in black marker “Restrooms.” I couldn’t see much more back there, as the lights were off. So I focused back on the bar area. Besides the tall stools at the bar, there were a few tables and chairs scattered about. The wall behind the bar was one large mirror, making the place appear larger than it was. Several neon beer signs, some illuminated, some not, adorned the dark wooden valance above where I sat. As my eyes scanned the shelves before me, jam-packed with liquor bottles, I noticed the kid was on his way back to my end of the bar.
He stopped in front of me, twisted the cap off the bottle, and slammed the beer down in front of me. His dark eyes raked over me, and though I’d dressed down, I cursed myself for wearing designer boots.
“You sure you’re in the right place, Miss?” he asked, snickering. “’Cause you’re not really lookin’ like you belong in here.”
I took a deep breath, figuring I wasn’t fooling the kid, so I might as well get down to business.
“Um…Yeah, right. I’m not really here to drink.” He shot me a look that screamed,
No shit
. “I, uh, have a friend who I think used to come here. A guy. I’m kind of looking to find out if he really did hang out here. And if so, who he used to hang with. I think I may have known her, too, if it’s the girl I’m thinking of.” The kid eyed me cautiously, his dark eyes wary, but I stammered on. “I mean, she used to be kind of a friend too.”
OK, so that part’s a huge lie; Chelsea had never been my friend.
The time stretched on, and the kid said nothing, so in an effort to put him at ease, I added, “I’m Maddy, by the way.” I smiled my friendliest smile and held out my hand.
At first he continued the silent treatment, but then he quietly said, “I’m Jimmy.” He reached hesitantly for my outstretched hand.
“There used to be another bartender here back then. He may know better who I’m talking about?” I offered, the pungent smell of disinfectant from his hands growing stronger as we shook.
I jerked my hand back, but he seemed not to notice. “Oh, you mean Old Carl,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Yeah, he doesn’t work here no more. Quit a couple years ago.”
“Oh,” I said, “do you know where I could find him?”
“Nah, he doesn’t live ’round here no more. Said he was goin’ to California or some shit. No one’s seen him since.” Jimmy picked up the dirty dishrag and resumed his earlier task of wiping down the bar. “Maybe I could help? I’ve only been bartendin’ here for a year, but I’ve been comin’ here for a lot longer ’an that. Pretty much know every face that’s been in and outta here the last few years.”
“This would’ve been five, maybe six, years ago though,” I said, doubtful that this kid was going to be much help. He looked too young to have been coming here back when Chelsea, and maybe J.T., had been frequenting this place.
But Jimmy insisted, “I’m tellin’ ya, I’ve been comin’ here since I was sixteen.” He looked proud to share this admission. He leaned forward like we were in on it together and whispered, “Just don’t be tellin’ the boss.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” I mumbled into my tilted bottle, hoping he’d not catch my sarcasm, and then I downed a big gulp of cheap beer.
“This dude you askin’ about, you gotta description?” Jimmy persisted.
Oh hell, it was worth a shot; maybe the kid
did
know something. So I said, “Better, I have a picture.” I pulled the photo of J.T. out of my bag, and Jimmy tossed the dishrag aside before grabbing the picture and giving it what appeared to be a good, long look.
At last he lowered the photo, and his narrowed eyes met mine. “You’re not some kind of a cop or somethin’?”
“I’m not a cop, I swear.”
“Reporter then?”
“No,” I said emphatically.
Jimmy glared at me, glanced back down at the picture of J.T., and then flicked the photo back at me. It landed faceup on the bar, and he turned away with a mumbled curse.
“So?” I asked Jimmy’s back.
“Uh, never seen him before,” he replied flatly, while showing a sudden interest in straightening the liquor bottles on the shelves behind the bar. The one with the turkey on it apparently didn’t belong next to the one with someone’s—I squinted—old granddad on it. Yeah, right.
I met Jimmy’s eyes in the reflection from the mirror; the lie was written all over the kid’s face. “Come on, Jimmy,” I pleaded. “Tell me what you know.”
He turned back around but kept his eyes down while muttering, “You know, I could tell ’ya, but business has been kinda slow here lately.” He nodded to a tip jar nestled between two bottles. “Hard to remember things from the past when you’re worried about makin’ this month’s rent.”
OK, so the kid was shaking me down to pay for whatever information he had. I wasn’t entirely surprised, and luckily I’d brought extra cash in anticipation of this exact sort of thing. I pulled out a wad of bills and peeled a fifty off the top. Jimmy’s tongue darted over his chapped, peeling lips as I pushed the crisp bill across the bar. I thought I saw him salivate a little.
With his hand hovering above the money, he hesitated. “Ya know, you wouldn’t believe how much it costs for a dump around here.”
The kid was like a pro. I huffed and peeled off another fifty. I resignedly threw the bill atop the other one. Jimmy quickly grabbed the money and stuffed it into the tip jar which—a few seconds ago—had held only coins. He fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of the threadbare jeans that hung too loosely on his slender frame.
I tapped the heel of my boot impatiently against the leg of the bar stool, waiting while, with his lips, Jimmy pulled a cigarette out of the pack. He lit it, and drew in deeply. “OK, OK. Yeah, that guy used to come in here,” Jimmy said, exhaling.
“And…” I prompted.
He shot a glance around the bar, which was still quite empty, but he lowered his voice anyway and said, “The guy in your picture used to come in here with that girl who disappeared. Chelsea, uh, something.”
“Hannigan,” I whispered.
“
She
was a friend of yours?” he asked, eyes widening.
“Kind of,” I lied. “It’s a shame what happened to her. Gone missing, and all.”
“Hell, I’m surprised something didn’t happen sooner, to tell you the truth,” Jimmy chortled, cold and uncaring.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, a little sickened by his callousness.
“Well, for starters, that girl did some crazy-ass shit. Things that are bound to catch up to ya.”
“Drugs?” I ventured.
“What do you think?” Jimmy snorted, blowing smoke in my direction. “But that was just the tip of the ol’ iceberg with her. She’d pick up guys here and do ’em right in the backroom after we closed up.” He nodded to the room with the pool tables. “Bet you didn’t know
that
about your friend, huh?”
I shook my head. Holy hell, this was much more than I’d expected.
“She brought that guy in a bunch of times,” he said, pointing to the picture of J.T., still on the bar, with his cigarette. “People used to talk. Said that guy got married on the rebound after she dumped his ass to get engaged to some rich prick that was away at college. Boy, that dude had no fuckin’ clue what his girlfriend was up to back home.”
Or did he?
I wondered. That might explain Adam’s supposed reluctance to marry Chelsea. Not to mention lend credence to the blackmail theory.
Oh, Adam, how much did you know?
Jimmy stubbed his cigarette out on the floor, picked up the dishrag, looked at it like he didn’t remember why it was even there, and then threw it back down on the bar. “You wanna know somethin’ even funnier?”
I took another fortifying drink of beer. “What’s that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
“She still brought that guy in here even
after
he got married, and she was engaged to that college dude. Guess a girl like that doesn’t give a shit ’bout things like marriage and engagements, huh?”
“Guess not,” I whispered, glancing down at the picture of J.T. He looked so young, so innocent. Not like a guy who’d end up doing drugs and cheating on his wife. Had I ever really known him? What else was he capable of?
“Hey, you OK?” Jimmy asked.
“Yeah, fine,” I replied heavily as I crumpled the photo and stuffed it into my bag.
I drank the last of the beer, which had grown warm, and readied to leave. But as I pushed the empty bottle away, Jimmy said, “Oh, hey, there was someone else she used to bring in here once in a while.” I raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Not a guy though.” Jimmy smirked.
“You remember a name?” I asked.
“Nah, but the chick sure was hot.” He whistled. “Had a killer body and sexy long blonde hair.”
“Was that it?” I asked, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.
Jimmy shook his head, a lecherous smile turning up his lips. “No, there’s more. I remember this one time…”
I stood, waiting. Hell, I’d paid a hundred bucks for information; I wasn’t going anywhere until he finished. Jimmy shuffled around behind the bar, acting strangely excited. “And?” I said impatiently.
“Yeah, so like I said, Chelsea was wild.” He paused, all the while looking like maybe he was replaying in his head whatever tawdry tale he was about to tell. “So this time I’m talkin’ about, she was here with that hot girl…the blonde…and they’re both really drunk. Hangin’ all over each other.” Jimmy snickered. “Shit like that, you know what I mean?”
He looked at me, waiting, so I decided to humor him. “Sure.”
“So it’s late…like closing time late. Only people left are me, Old Carl, Chelsea, and her friend.” Jimmy leaned on the bar, continuing in a low voice, “So Old Carl pulls out one of them Polaroid cameras from behind the bar. He tells Chelsea he’ll let her bar tab slide for the rest of the week if she makes out with her friend. Oh, and lets him take some pictures, of course.”
“Of course,” I said dryly.
“Hell, she wasn’t offended or nothin’,” Jimmy said, snorting. “But it sure as hell wasn’t like she needed a pass on her bar tab. Everyone knew she had money. No, her ass was all over that shit just for kicks. Full on tongue action too, man. And Old Carl got his pictures. A bunch of ’em too.”
I perked up. Who was this mystery blonde? Nothing like this had been mentioned in the case files. Maybe it would turn out to be nothing, maybe she was just another wild girl who happened to meet up with Chelsea that night. But no, according to Jimmy, they’d been in here more than just that one time. She had to have been someone Chelsea knew. And that made me wonder why the police had never found her, never questioned her. What if she held some kind of key to the case? How much more had she known about Chelsea’s secret life? Without a doubt, I needed to find out the identity of the girl.