Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(83)

He simply caught her finger, then arched eyebrows when Nadine and Jake exchanged a pretty serious goodbye kiss.

“She’s not a cop.”

“Well, if kissing my wife is off-limits, see that you take good care of my cop.” Then he tugged her finger to his lips, made her roll her eyes. “She won’t outsmart you, Lieutenant. Not for long.”

When he walked away, she looked back, watched the morgue team load the body bag in the wagon. Not for long just wasn’t good enough.

She opted to walk the handful of blocks to the bar, spare herself the frustration of finding a place to park.

“It’s going to be a beautiful day.” Peabody lifted her face to the breeze.

Eve jammed her hands into her pockets. “Tell that to the dead guy.”

“Well, he’d be dead even if it was going to be a crappy day.”

“That’s a point.”

“So, pretty day, and it’s supposed to stick awhile. I talked Mavis into going with me, bringing Belle, to the community garden over the weekend if we’re clear. Lots of things we can help plant this early in the season.”

Baffled, Eve turned her head and stared. “Mavis is going to plant stuff? In the ground?”

“It’s fun to dig in the dirt, and good luck when a pregnant woman plants.”

Eve couldn’t figure where the fun was in dirt, but it took all kinds. “Hasn’t she already been planted?”

“Hah! Good one.” All but bouncing down the sidewalk, Peabody gave Eve a cheerful elbow poke. “It’s good to get out in the fresh air, plant living things. Plus, Bella learns how to make flowers, vegetables grow, how to take care of them.”

“Trying to make a Free-Ager out of her?”

“All Free-Agers are gardeners, but not all gardeners are Free-Agers. Anyway … We’re meeting the owner? The bar?”

“No, the bartender-slash-manager. The owners are a couple of guys in Newark who, according to them and the bartender, haven’t been in the place for weeks. We’ll get more out of the guy who worked the bar last night.”

When they reached it, Eve studied the exterior.

A long, long way from McEnroy’s watering grounds, Nowhere suited its name. It hunched between an empty storefront advertising it was for sale or lease, and a pawn shop with its steel doors locked down.

Its single window, dingy with grime, framed a swirl of neon—currently dark—reading NOWHERE. While security included triple police locks and a sign with a toothy dog claiming that Bulldog Alarm system guarded the building, it didn’t include a door cam.

She didn’t have to see the interior to recognize a drinking establishment where the patrons came to down the cheap until they had enough of a buzz to stumble out and face their crap-filled lives.

A dim excuse for a light came on inside. She saw movement, then heard the locks snap open.

The man who stood in the door had a lot of snarled ink-black hair with brassy streaks falling past his shoulders. The shoulders were wide, the arms bearing sleeve tats and biceps that bulged.

Dark circles dogged bleary brown eyes. Even his sneer looked tired.

“You the frigging cops?”

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. You the frigging bartender?”

“Yeah. Shit.” He jerked a thumb in aggrieved invitation. “We got the licenses posted, right there.”

She noted them, and further noted she hadn’t been wrong about the establishment. A dump of a dive, she concluded, for cheap and serious drinking, fellowship not required.

“We’re not here about your license, Mr. Tiller.”

“Whatever you’re here about better be good enough to roust me out of bed at this hour.”

“Murder good enough for you?”

“Ah, fuck.” He walked away, flipped up the pass-through to go behind the bar. He pulled a bottle from under the bar along with a shot glass. Poured the shot, downed it. “What’s it to me?”

Eve stepped up to the bar, brought Kagen’s ID shot up on her PPC. “Do you know this man?”

“He dead?”

“He is.”

“Yeah, I know him. A regular. Regular asshole.”

“When did you last see or speak to him?”

Tiller jabbed a finger at a stool. “He was sitting there last night, bitching about the ball game on-screen. Doesn’t like baseball, and too fucking bad. I do, and I run the bar.”

“Was he alone?”

“Come in alone, like always.” Tiller pulled out another bottle, a tall glass. Eve didn’t know what he poured, but it smelled like seaweed. He spiked it with another shot.

“What time did he come in?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Ordered a beer, a bump, some grub. His usual. Had another, bitching about the game. I said how he could take off if he didn’t like it. Not like he tips worth a shit anyhow. But he orders another round. I got some regulars watching the game, so I tell him to zip it or I’ll boot him.”

“I bet he zipped it,” Peabody said, trying some flattery.

Tiller shrugged, downed half of the spiked seaweed. “I booted him before, he knows I’ll do it again.”

“Did he talk with anyone else, interact, leave with anyone?”

“Yeah. Some street snatch walks in, takes a stool, orders a brew. He plays big shot, has me put it on his tab. He runs a weekly, pays up or he don’t get served.”