“How so?”

“Every way. The fat guy seemed more easygoing. Looked you in the eye when talking to you. He drank beer and went through a bowl of popcorn. The other one never touched it. He drank two shots of tequila. Oh, sorry about the glass.”

They’d learned from Morrow that the bartender had washed it as soon as his customer had emptied it, so there was little hope of lifting prints from it for identification. The beer bottles Mickey Bolden had drunk from had gone into a barrel with other trash, but they hadn’t been needed to ID him.

“What else about the two?” Joe asked.

“The fat guy talked a lot more. The other one didn’t say much at all. Avoided eye contact. Never caught him smiling. Looked like a man with a lot on his mind.”

“Taciturn,” Joe said.

“If that means ‘Do not mess with me,’ then yeah. Wore the warning like a sign around his neck.”

Hick asked, “Did you notice any reaction from them when Ms. Bennett came in?”

“I really couldn’t say because my attention was on her. I remember serving them another round after her arrival, though. The beer drinker seemed to be in no particular hurry to finish. But the other made quick work of his tequila, then went over to the jukebox.”

He told them that Mickey had made a phone call, and when he concluded it, he paid their tab with cash and joined his buddy at the jukebox. Soon after that, they left together.

“Neither said anything to Ms. Bennett?” Joe asked.

“No. And I’m certain of that, because by then the kid had moved in and was hassling her. I was on the verge of telling him to back off when she up and left.”

“How long behind the two men did she leave?”

“Minutes after. Five, maybe.”

Joe rubbed his eyes, which were gritty from lack of sleep and stinging from the lingering tobacco fog in the bar. “Okay, the taciturn one, can you give us a more detailed physical description?” He began by asking his height, wanting to know if the bartender’s recollection corresponded with Royce Sherman’s “on the tall side.”

“Six three at least. Lean, but ripped. More wide receiver than running back. Y’all Saints fans?”

Joe nodded, asking, “His approximate age?”

“Hmm, mid- to late thirties. A face that severe, it’s hard to tell.”

“Hair?”

“Brownish. Longish. Not as long as mine.”

Joe noted the length of the man’s braid and smiled. “That’d be hard for any man to beat.”

“His came to his collar in back.”

“Facial hair?”

He stroked his luxuriant beard. “No. I would’ve noticed.”

“Tattoos, scars, piercings? Anything like that?”

“No tattoos. None visible, anyway.” He extended his arms. “I would have noticed ink. He did have a scar, though. Here,” he said, touching the side of his chin.

Joe’s heart skipped.

Hick stopped pecking on his iPad screen and raised his head.

Joe cleared his throat. “You sure?”

“About the scar? Yeah,” the bartender replied. “I noticed because it cut through his scruff. Oh, does that count as facial hair? He’d gone two, maybe three days without shaving.”

“Describe the scar.”

“Well, as I was facing him, it was…” He used Joe’s chin as a means of remembering correctly. “On the left side. Sort of curved, like the letter C, only backward,” he said, drawing one in the air inches from Joe’s face.

Without taking his eyes off the bartender, Joe asked Hick, “Got a picture handy?”

Joe’s heart had resumed beating and now thudded with dread as Hick went through the necessary steps to open his photos file. He brought up a mug shot, zoomed it into a close-up, and turned the screen toward the bartender, who happily exclaimed, “That’s the guy. No question.” Then, gauging their expressions, his white smile wavered. “Not good?”

Joe turned away and reached for his cell phone, saying to Hick over his shoulder, “I gotta alert the office.”

Hick was left to answer the bartender’s question. “No. Not good. Especially for Jordie Bennett.”

Chapter 7

Well?” Shaw demanded.

“What is that?”

Holding the scrap of food wrapper by both ends directly in front of Jordie Bennett’s face, he stretched it taut so she could better see what had been scrawled on it. “A phone number. Local area code.”

“That was in my pocket?” She looked from the strip of paper into his eyes. “I don’t know anything about it.”

He unsnapped the breast pocket of his shirt and stuffed the paper inside. “Right. And the jerk in the bar was also a total stranger.”

“He was.”

“You didn’t cry foul when this stranger started rubbing your ass.”

“I didn’t want to make a scene.”

“You made a scene when you walked into that place.”

“I told him to take his hand off me or else. I didn’t know he was slipping something into my pocket.”

“Convenient, that he had the number already written down. Like he knew you’d be there and planned on sneaking it to you.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about it.”

“Next you’ll be telling me that you’re a regular customer, that you go there every night for your glass of white wine.” When she didn’t immediately respond, he tilted his head. “Well? Had you ever darkened the door of that place before tonight? Had you ever even driven past it?”

She said nothing.

“Thought so.” He closed his hand around her elbow and nudged her forward. “But you went there tonight and let that jackass fondle you.”

“Exactly. He was a jackass. Why would I want his phone number?”

He drew up short and faced her. “I never said it was his.”

Her breath caught. They stared at each other for a ponderous few moments, then she blinked several times and said, “Who else’s would it be?”

He leaned in and whispered, “You tell me, Jordie.”

She held his gaze but wasn’t quailed by it. In fact, her eyes narrowed. “How did you and your partner know I would be in that bar tonight?”