When the bartender looked up to see them, his face devolved into a contemptuous scowl, and he rolled his ferret-like eyes. “Cops. Great.”
It had been a long day made longer by her push and pull with Detective Jim Lonergan. The eye roll and contempt from the bartender right out of the gate were like the poisoned cherry on top of a burnt cake. Foster approached the bar, dutifully presenting her badge. Lonergan, she noticed, kept his clipped to his belt.
“Detective Foster,” she announced. She waited for Lonergan to introduce himself, but he didn’t. He just stood there being big, so she finally jabbed a thumb in his direction. “And this is Detective Lonergan. Mind if we ask you a few questions?”
The sullen look on the man’s face broadcast that he very much did mind. He leaned his elbows on the shiny bar top. “About?”
Lonergan flicked a look at the Riverwalk outside the front window. “Three guesses.” He looked down at the plastic nameplate on the man’s black button-down shirt. “Giles. Giles what?”
The two stared at each other for a time, Giles trying it on, finding he didn’t have half the starch in his spine he would need to stand his ground with the big burly cop with the mean look and lousy disposition.
“Valentine.”
Confident he’d won the face-off, Lonergan smiled. “Mr. Valentine, we’re investigating the death of a young woman found across the river there.” Foster held up Peggy’s photo. Lonergan pointed to it. “You ever see her in here?”
Foster was aware that they’d caught the attention of the diners. You couldn’t miss two cops walking into a bar. Through the south-facing windows, she found she had a clear view of the river and the spot where Birch had been found on the other side. She could just make out the small tree where the crime scene tape had been strung.
She turned her attention back to the prickly, trying-too-hard barkeep in his black shirt and red bow tie. He sported a well-groomed soul patch and a tilted fedora on his head, which made him look like a reject from a seventies Bob Fosse revue. And he smelled of cigarettes and peppermint, a combination she would think would be unappealing in such a high-contact job.
Valentine gave the photo only a passing glance; in fact, he actively avoided looking at it. “You’re kidding, right? You know how many people we get in here a night?”
“A Sunday night? Here?” Lonergan glanced at the chalkboard behind Valentine’s head that listed the drink prices. “With a Guinness going for eight dollars a pint?”
“What? People don’t go out Sunday nights unless it’s to church?” He grinned at Lonergan. “And, FYI, I don’t price the stuff, I just pour it.”
Foster kept the photo up, unconcerned with the price of the Guinness. “We get it. No one’s ever glad to see us.”
Valentine snorted. “Especially these days, am I right? You got some bad apples batting for your side, that’s for sure.” He glanced over at Lonergan and scowled. “And it only takes one.”
Lonergan looked Valentine up and down slowly, like he wasn’t at all impressed with what he saw either. “Nice bowtie, slick.”
Foster held Peggy’s photo up higher, no patience for the pissing match. “Mind looking again, a little closer, please? We could use your help.”
Valentine pulled his eyes away from Lonergan’s to face her. “This is a lot of heat for a mugging gone bad. All I’m saying.”
“Who told you it was a muggin’？” Lonergan said.
“It was on the news. Possible mugging, they said. You people need to keep up. That’s part of your problem, you ask me. You guys are Edsels in a Tesla world. Dinosaurs in a—”
“So you don’t remember seeing her in here?” Lonergan said.
Valentine sighed, then snapped his fingers and wiggled them, beckoning for the photo to be handed over to him. “Lemme see it.” He cocked his head toward Foster. “For her, not you. She said please.”
Lonergan fumed at the snapping fingers. The gesture rankled Foster a bit, too, but she was the one in need of cooperation. “A good look this time, huh?” she said.
Foster set the photo on the bar. Valentine reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of readers and slid them on. He peered at the photo for several moments, Foster watching closely as recognition dawned.
“You did see her,” she said.
“How could you forget that hair? Aww, it was her you found over there? That’s terrible. You know, this city really is going to the dogs. Maybe we’d get a little more police presence down here if we opened a couple of doughnut shops. What do you think?” He slid a look at Foster. “That was for him, not you.”
“Tell us about the woman,” Lonergan said through clenched teeth.
“She seemed like a good kid. She was really on last night too. The life of the party. Up. Laughing, center of attention. A good crowd came in after the march. She was one of them. Real popular with the boys.”
“Any particular boy?”
“Nope. Equal-opportunity firebrand.”
“You’re sure?” Lonergan asked. “You can’t see everybody who comes in here. Somebody coulda slipped past you, flown under the radar.”
“They didn’t.”
“And you were on this bar all night yesterday?” Lonergan asked.
Valentine grinned. “Till the last light flicked off.”
“Do you know what time she came in? How long she stayed?” Foster asked.
“It starts picking up in here about five. She came in maybe an hour later. She left just before eight. A bunch left around then, which gave me some breathing room, and I didn’t see her after that. The place was hopping.”
“What’d you serve her?” Lonergan asked. “Seeing as she was underage.”
“Diet Coke. Two. Out of a bottle, not a glass. You know, you got no shot at winning Mr. Congeniality anywhere. Just saying.”
Foster glanced around the bar, noting the security cameras. “We’d like to take a look at your cameras. That going to be a problem?”
Valentine’s eyes stayed on Lonergan’s. “You’ll have to talk to the manager. Like I said, I just pour. Cameras aren’t my deal.”
“He here?” Lonergan asked.
“She’s in her office.”
The three stood quietly for a half moment.
“Want me to call her?” Valentine asked.
Foster offered a patient smile. “Please.”
The manager was Maureen Pike, or Mo, as Valentine called her. Foster pegged her to be in her mid-to late sixties. Her auburn hair, dyed to an unnatural tone, was scooped up into a top bun, and cat-eye glasses hung from a chain around her neck, hitting her ample bosom dead center. The back room looked like it served as office, locker room, and break room, smelling of old coats, boiled soup, and long-ago-eaten ham sandwiches. Pike, like Valentine, didn’t look happy to see them.
“We didn’t serve her,” Pike said right out of the gate. “Giles knows to check ID. And we’re not just a bar, right? We’re a bar and restaurant. We serve burgers and fries, fish and chips. We have a full menu. So if you’re thinking she left out of here half in the bag, you’d be wrong.”