Waking Nightmare (31 page)
“Like she was expecting someone.”
Abbie nodded. “The way she nearly lost it when I asked about meeting a man downtown . . .”
“Guilty conscience, maybe. Like someone who invited a guy she met downtown to meet her at her place. But why try to hide that? Why not give the guy’s name up?”
“Could be like she said,” Abbie picked up the thread effortlessly. “Inviting a strange man home might be totally out of character for her. Maybe she’s embarrassed about it.”
“A different MO, if it’s our guy, though.” Ryne braked suddenly when another car switched lanes without signaling. “He doesn’t pick up women in bars, risk being ID’d later.”
She gave it some more thought. “Does this drug have to be injected? Can it be ingested instead?”
“No idea. Hopefully that’s something the GBI chemist will able to answer for us. You’re thinking something could have been put in one of her drinks?”
She nodded. “One way or another, the drug is the link. She came into contact with it during the night or once she got home. We just need to have a few more answers before approaching her again.” And she needed time to research Larsen’s background. She didn’t want to mention that to Ryne right now, unwilling to disturb the easy camaraderie they’d fallen into.
“I want to get a look at the scene of the fire. Want to come along?”
Although she was tempted, Abbie shook her head. She could always check out the site later. “Take me back to headquarters to get my car. I’d like to start checking out those bars she listed. I want to learn everything I can about Karen Larsen by the time she gets off work this afternoon.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Might as well show Juarez’s picture around those places, too. We’ll kill two birds with one stone.”
“Any sign of him since you assigned a door knock?”
“He was holed up inside the apartment, just like we thought. After our guy talked to him, he started back to work the next day. We’ve still got someone on him. Maybe he’ll venture out to resume his crappy social life this weekend. No one can stay locked up in a dive like his forever.”
Remembering the state of Juarez’s apartment from their search of it, Abbie was inclined to agree. “It will probably take me a while to find out who was working at each of the bars on the night in question and get those people in to talk to them.”
“I’ll send a couple officers with you.”
She’d need the show of SCMPD muscle, she realized. She had no visible means of authority to convince the management to talk to her otherwise. He pulled into the parking lot of police headquarters and cruised to a stop beside her rental. She released her seat belt and opened the door. His voice stopped her exit.
“Abbie?”
Turning, she found him looking at her, expression impassive, his hands clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel. But he said only, “Keep me posted.”
Five hours and a gallon of water later, Abbie had little to report but rapidly eroding patience and limited progress. She’d underestimated the amount of time it would take to gather time sheets and work schedules in each of the drinking establishments from that far back. After the first stop, she’d wised up and dispatched two of the three officers Ryne had assigned to the next two bars on the list, to get the process started there. And even after all that effort, she got the same story from every waitress and bartender she spoke to.
No one could say with any certainty that they recognized Larsen, although waitresses in two establishments had hesitated over her picture. She’d scored no better showing Juarez’s likeness. The only thing lifting her spirits as she walked into The Loose Goose was that it was their final stop of the day.
A blast of cold air hit her as Abbie pushed open the door, and squinted in the dim light to find Officers O’Malley and Dugan. O’Malley spotted her and crossed the room. “Got someone who recognized her, Ms. Phillips.” He jerked his head toward the man behind the bar, slowly wiping its surface. “Jim Cordray. He was working that night till closing time.”
“Thanks, Tom.” Moving past the man, she approached the bar, aware of the bartender’s searching gaze all the while.
“Mr. Cordray, I’m Abbie Phillips, with the SCMPD. I’m told you recognized a photo Officers O’Malley and Dugan showed you.”
The bartender’s shaved head gleamed under the light overhead. From the breadth of his chest and biceps, he looked like he bench-pressed Volkswagens in his off-hours. She wondered if he doubled as a bouncer when he wasn’t mixing drinks. He was a walking poster boy for steroid use.
“Recognized the broad, not the guy.”
“Okay. So you were bartending that night?”
“That’s right.” He made no effort to hide the interest in his gaze as it raked over her form. “She was downing birdbath margaritas like they was water.”
“Birdbath margaritas?”
He turned and got an oversized goblet and sat it on the bar in front of her. Abbie’s brows rose. Given her height and weight, she was a real lightweight in the alcohol department. Two drinks of that size would have had her incoherent.
Karen Larsen was half a foot taller than she was, but if she’d had a few of these, it was little wonder that she’d been wasted. “How long was she here that night?”
He shrugged. At least she thought that’s what it meant when those massive shoulders rippled toward his neck. “Don’t know when she came in. But she was sitting up here at the bar for a couple hours and she was still here at closing time. Already pretty loose by the time I noticed her. And it was hard not to notice her.”
“Because?”
“’Cuz she was showing off the goods, ya know what I mean? Tight top, short skirt . . . got a nice rack on her, but her ass is a little flat for my taste.” He gave up the pretense of mopping the bar and leaned his elbows on it, giving Abbie another once-over. “I ain’t got nothing against smaller packages, though.” When he smiled, a gold front tooth glinted.
“I’m sure you’re intimately acquainted with small packages,” she replied blandly. Officer O’Malley turned his chortle into a cough as Cordray’s brows furrowed. “Did she leave alone? Did you notice anyone in particular spending time with her?”
“She left alone. And she was chatty. Talked to lots of people while she was here. No one special.”
Abbie studied the man then took a guess. “Did you go home with her?”
Sending a glance at the man, presumably his boss, at the end of the bar still talking to Dugan, he replied, “Nope.” He resumed wiping the bar in a desultory fashion.
“But she invited you, right?” When he didn’t issue a denial, Abbie went on, “See the way I figure it is, I’ve been to five other places and no one can recall her being in there for sure. The places were packed, hard to remember someone weeks later. But you not only remember her, you recall what she was drinking and wearing. That tells me there was more than simple observation going on. You and she were flirting, right? And when closing time came, the two of you were planning to see a little more of each other. Nothing wrong with that. Two consenting adults, right?”
“Right.” Cordray gave her a slow wink. “And you know what they say about ladies all being ‘tens’ at closing time.”
“So how’d it go? She gave you her address? You followed her home, or did she wait for you?”
He shook his head. “Neither. I was gonna head over to her place after we closed, but then my prick of a boss”—he jerked his head in the direction of the middle-aged man at the end of the bar talking to Dugan—“he counts the take and says the register is off a couple hundred bucks and he about goes ape shit. None of us can leave until the dough is found, and that means we’re all standing around here for three more hours, unpaid, ’cause he’s threatening to call the cops and turn us all in.” He gave his employer a hostile glare. “Asshole.”
Three hours. If his story checked out, that would mean it was at least five before he left here, and the emergency call from Larsen’s was placed at four-fifteen.
“Were you the only one mixing drinks while this woman was in here?”
Cordray ignored the question, clearly filled with self-righteous anger. “’Course after all that time he finally figures out that he counted wrong—twice—but does he apologize? Hell, no. We’re all out several hours’ sleep because the asshole never passed fourth grade math.”
Summoning patience, Abbie repeated the question.
“Naw. There were a couple of us. Benny was working the bar that night, too. I know he fetched at least one drink for her because it was him who pointed her out to me.”
“What about when she left? What kind of condition was she in then?” Given the drug’s disabling properties, Abbie doubted whether Larsen could have come in contact with the drug prior to her arrival here and still be functioning. But then, she’d managed to break a window and escape her bedroom, ostensibly with the drug in her system.
“Same condition as most who left here. Drunk. But not so drunk that she wasn’t thinking straight. She called her own cab on her cell. Made it outside without help.”
Almost certainly the woman wouldn’t have managed that if the drug was already in her system. Abbie made a mental note that they were going to have to get Larsen to voluntarily offer them a copy of her tox screen to justify their possession of the copy Dixon had given them.
The possibility seemed no more improbable than retrieving any more useful information here today. Even realizing that, Abbie settled more comfortably on the barstool and asked resignedly, “The other guy bartending that night. Is he here?”
Laura Bradford smiled as her date excused himself from the table. Having to take a cell phone call on a Saturday night might have raised warning flags had it been anyone else, but Warren Denton was a high-powered local criminal attorney. Given his job, she could believe he was never really off duty.
Nerves jittered pleasantly in her stomach as she took a sip of what tasted like a very expensive wine. As a court stenographer, she was used to being invisible. It had taken Denton well over a year to even speak to her when they’d run into each other outside the courtroom; another year before he’d asked her out. And she definitely wanted this to go well. Although twice divorced, Warren was articulate, charming, well dressed, and handsome. It didn’t hurt that he was also wealthy and obviously didn’t mind spending his money. The Balustrade Revolving Restaurant, perched atop a downtown high-rise, was one of the city’s most exclusive.
She reached into her purse to withdraw a compact, checked her makeup in the mirror. The pains she’d taken with her appearance showed. She hadn’t missed the subtle appreciation in Warren’s expression whenever he looked at her.
Laura allowed herself a little smile as she slipped the compact back into her purse. After the string of dead-end dates she’d experienced in the past several months—the last of which had been an unemployed thirty-five-year-old Trek kie enthusiast still living in his parents’ basement—she was entitled to feel a little excitement at the prospect of a date with a
real
man.
real
man.
And maybe not just one date. At least she hoped not. Maybe this would develop into a real relationship. She wasn’t necessarily in the market for white lace and organdy, but if a prize like Warren Denton came along, she wasn’t going to close the door to options either.
“Beautiful view, isn’t it?”
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