Friends Like These(61)

I can feel him looking at me. I don’t look back. “She looked . . . rough.”

“That’s too bad,” Dan says, a little tentatively. He’s probably worried that my voluntarily engaging him in conversation is some kind of trap.

It’s a fair assumption. I know there are ways my behavior has left something to be desired. When we stay quiet for a moment longer, I think of thanking Dan for coming to get me after the incident at Home Depot. I should have before. But it feels too late for that now. It feels too late for a lot of things.

“You get any word back about Mike Gaffney’s whereabouts?” I ask instead. “I haven’t heard anything.”

Dan shakes his head. “He’s going to love being rousted, though.”

“Sending a car to confirm he’s been fishing is hardly rousting him,” I say, though I know Dan is right. “We found an Ace Construction hat at the scene. The victims owed him money. Not confirming his alibi would be ridiculous.”

“Agreed. He’ll still be pissed, though. That guy’s always pissed.” Dan points over his shoulder toward the Falls. “What’s in here?”

“Need to confirm Luke Gaffney’s alibi, too,” I say. “He claims he was here all last night. But he’s got some nasty scratches on his neck that suggest otherwise.”

Dan nods. “You want company?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

No— that’s my reflex. But for once, I choose the opposite. “Yeah, okay, sure.”

At 1:00 p.m. on a Sunday there are only three older men sitting separately at the bar, and not one of them even bothers to look our way when we come in. At the far end, the bartender, a young guy, stocky and bright-eyed, is wiping down the counter with an exceptional amount of elbow grease and good cheer.

“What can I get for you guys?” He smiles up at us as we approach, but his face stiffens when I pull out my badge. “There, um, a problem, Officers?”

“Were you working last night?”

He looks down at the bar, scrubbing at an imaginary stain. Part of me just wants to arrest him for looking so fucking guilty. “Uh, yeah.”

“Did you see this girl in here?” I hold up my phone with a photo of Crystal’s driver’s license.

He leans in. “Oh, Crystal?” He looks relieved. “She’s always in here trying to pick up weekenders, get a drink, free meal, whatever. Girls like her love to hunt the weekenders.” He blinks when he finally notices I’m glaring at him. “I mean, that’s what people say.”

I think of those pictures of Crystal as a track star— her beaming smile and healthy, confident glow. Girls like her. Where she is now has nothing to do with who she really is.

“And was she here last night ‘hunting,’ as you say?” I ask, my eyes still digging into him.

“Um, Friday, definitely.” He looks away. “But I didn’t see her last night, which, come to think of it, is a little weird. She’s usually right up near the bar.” He points to the TV screen mounted above. “But last night the McGregor fight was on, so the place was wall-to-wall. Crystal could have been here. Maybe I just didn’t see her.”

“What about this guy?” I ask, holding up a picture of Finch that I found on the internet. He’s much better-looking when not beaten up.

“Oh, yeah. I got him and another guy a round of shots. They bought our most expensive tequila. Nobody drinks that crap.” He grins. “It’s twenty-five bucks a shot, and tastes like shit. They even bought more than one round. Decent tip. Some of these rich weekenders are cheap bastards. Wait, but that was Friday, not last night.”

“Are you sure?”

He looks at the ceiling again. “Yeah, definitely. Because there was some room to breathe up here. Friday, for sure.”

“Was the guy who bought the tequila with one of these two?” I ask, showing him pictures of Keith and Derrick.

“Yeah, that one.” He points at Keith. “Definitely. Actually, I also saw Crystal talking to him.”

“This one?” I hold up my phone again with the picture of Keith.

“Yeah, actually they left together. There was a big group of them— nice car. Audi SUV. I’m a car guy.” The bartender then looks past me, motions to someone. “You want another, man?”

When Dan and I turn, there’s Bob Hoff. He tosses a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, avoiding eye contact with me as he starts for the exit. “No, I’m good.”

“Mr. Hoff,” I call after him as he heads quickly toward the door. “Can I ask you a question?”

Almost at the door, he stops and shakes his head. When he finally turns, his eyes are fiery. “This is bullshit, you know. I’m just here taking care of my mom— who’s dying, by the way— and minding my own business. You actually don’t have the right to keep trying to drag me into every crime that happens in this town.”

“You’re right,” I say. Honesty is really my only option. “You’re absolutely right. And I’m not trying to drag you into this situation here. But I was just a little girl when my sister Jane was killed, and I still don’t know what happened to her. Your statement isn’t in my sister’s file, Mr. Hoff. All I’m asking is that you tell me what it said.” Bob Hoff shakes his head again. But he’s still here— and that’s something. I step closer, so I can lower my voice. “You don’t owe me an answer, you don’t. But I’m still asking: What did you see, back when my sister was killed?”