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?”
Hoff closes his eyes, shakes his head again. “Mike Gaffney, okay?” he says finally. “That’s who I saw. Coming out of the woods near where those girls were killed. I was only driving past and I only caught a glimpse. But he was wearing one of those red Ace Construction hats, and he had on this damn ugly plaid shirt I’d seen him wearing the week before when he came into the Cumberland Farms.”
When I come in, Finch Hendrix is slumped across the table in interview room 2. He’s gripping his right side with one hand, the other propping up his head. He’s pulled his shoulder-length hair back in a headband, which makes him look significantly less attractive.
“You do know I’m going to sue the shit out of you?” he asks, but in a tired voice, as I pull out a chair and sit. “I have a show to put on tonight. A delay costs me actual money.”
“Killing one, maybe two, people does have a tendency to limit one’s financial opportunities,” I say. Shock value is never a bad place to start. Also, I’m hoping it might help me focus on this conversation. Because I’m fixating on Mike Gaffney and Jane— all alibis are not created equal, and I never went back to double-check Mike Gaffney’s myself. He’d said he was on a remodeling job at the time, but it’d be good to confirm that again.