“A photographic memory,” clarified Maddy.
“You saw the car?”
“Of course. It was sitting right out back for hours,” said Maddy. “Sanchez definitely stole it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because at the end of the night, he was stomping up and down the bar, yelling, ‘Yep, I’m gonna steal me that car. I’m stealing that car! Anyone dare me to steal that car?’ and the rest of us are like, ‘Stop getting mulch on us . . .’”
Reevis could feel the heat from the eyes across the bar. The regulars became more hostile in their glares. The only thing holding them back was Clementine’s de facto approval of the young reporter. You don’t shit where you eat, and you don’t cross bartenders in your zip code.
Reevis gathered his thoughts. “But tell me about when you actually saw the car.”
“Sanchez keeps pestering me, raising his hands to heaven and saying, ‘It’s a sign from God!’ Tells me it’s brand new, driver door open, keys in the ignition, and a holy glow inside telling him the saints wanted him to have the car. I said that was the dome light, but he won’t stop until I finally say, ‘Okay, okay, if you’ll promise to leave me alone.’ So he takes me out back, and sure enough, there’s this factory-spanking-new blue Caprice. I mean green; the yellow crime lights throw you off every time. And it was sitting there just like he said, door open, light on, keys, ready to roll.”
Reevis was bolt upright. “What happened then?”
“I told him not to steal a car with blood all over the interior.”
“You saw blood with your own eyes?” Reevis scribbled furiously. “What else?”
“Kittens.”
The reporter raised his head. “Live cats were in the car?”
“No, the little stuffed ones that people make rows of in their back windows. Not me, personally, but what are you going to do?”
“Okay, and Sanchez?”
“I kept warning him about the blood, but he just jumped in the car and said, ‘Screw it, I’m stealing it anyway!’ And then he drove off. The next thing we knew, he was all over the news as prime suspect in a murder. Everyone in here laughing at the TV: Sanchez with that goofy, hapless expression during the perp walk. That’s when police take a suspect—”
“I’m familiar with a perp walk,” said Reevis. “So what happened then? I understand he was ruled out pretty quickly.”
Maddy nodded as she sipped watered-down Canadian Mist through a straw. “Police came in the bar to interview me. They said Sanchez had changed his story—that at first he had been partying in the bar with the victim, and she lent him the car . . . I cut them off and said Sanchez was an idiot but not a murderer, and the missing woman had never been in the bar, period. Not that night or any other. Then I told them about seeing the car abandoned with door open and the keys and the blood, and Sanchez not listening to me and speeding off in the thing.”
“So that’s when they ruled him out?”
“Not at first.” Maddy pulled another long menthol from her cigarette case. “They said if everything I told them was true, it makes no sense for Sanchez to admit to partying with the victim the night she went missing and make himself the last person to see her alive. Well, I read a lot of mysteries, so I said, ‘It makes perfect sense. When he thought he was just facing auto theft, he tried to lie his way out, but when it turned into a murder rap, he thought, ‘Can I go back and take the stolen-car beef, please?’” She leaned closer and dropped her voice in secrecy. “You know who you should really look into? A guy named Larouche who works at the body shop up the street.”
Reevis wrote diligently in his notepad. “Why?”
She formed tight, earnest lips. “I don’t like him.”
“How is he involved in the case?”
“He’s not. He’s dating my daughter.”
Reevis removed the tip of his pen from the pad. “Maddy, you’ve been more than helpful, and I don’t want to impose, but could I ask you a favor?”
The bottom end of her straw searched for scotch around the ice cubes. “Name it.”
“My company sent a film crew because they think there’s still a lot of public interest in this case. Would you possibly mind repeating what you just said on camera?”
“For you, no problem,” said Maddy, signaling the bartender for a refill. “But you’ll need to clear it first with Clementine . . .”
. . . Outside, in a black Suburban. “What’s going on?” asked Nigel.
The sound man cupped both hands over his earphones to hear better. “There’s a lot of background noise, but it seems like he actually might get our camera into the bar after all.”
“Well, I’ll be,” said Nigel. “Keep listening and let me know the second he gets permission . . .”
Back inside, the bartender saw Reevis signal with his finger and came over with a smile.
“Another Diet Coke?”
“Thanks, Clementine. And thanks for introducing me to Maddy. She’s been great—and she’s agreed to an on-camera interview.”
“Well, look at you!” Clementine told Maddy. “Hope you’ll still remember us little people when you’re a big TV star.”
“If it isn’t too much to ask,” asked Reevis, “could we possibly bring the camera in here? I promise to be as low-key as possible and respect your other customers’ privacy. We’ll be completely unobtrusive and stay tightly focused on Maddy. Do you think maybe that might be something you could . . . ?”
Clementine grinned and shook her head with amusement, like he was being silly. “Of course you can film in here. Take as long as you need.”
“Really appreciate it,” said Reevis. “I’ll just go outside and get the crew—”
Suddenly the front door of the lounge crashed open. Blinding light filled the bar. Screaming.
Clementine spun around and shielded her eyes. “What in the living hell?”
Nigel sprinted through the bar, followed by a Bavarian with a jiggling camera. “Reevis! Thank God you’re safe! . . .”
Ten minutes later.
A parked black Suburban rocked to and fro on its suspension.
Günter wept and cursed in German, repeatedly slamming himself into the door.
“Easy now,” said Nigel, rubbing the videographer’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right.”
More anguished wailing.
“There’s something seriously wrong with you people,” said Reevis. “I had everything under control.”
“And it was an amazing thing to listen to,” said the producer. “You had them eating out of your hand.”
“I told you not to listen!” said the reporter. “As we sit here, that recording is evidence of a felony. You need to destroy it now.”
“Can’t do it,” said Nigel. “It’s all we’ve got.”
“That’s on you,” said Reevis. “We had the interview in hand before that cowboy nonsense back there. What on earth were you thinking?”
“Priorities,” said Nigel. “The interview would have been gravy—and don’t think we’re not thoroughly grateful for your efforts setting it up—but we needed confrontation footage.”
“And where is the footage?” Reevis asked sarcastically.
“We sort of lost it when they smashed the camera,” said Nigel. “How was I supposed to know that biker was carrying a hammer? What’s that about?”
Günter sobbed louder.
“This is everything I was trying to tell you,” said Reevis. “Your antics provoked an unknown variable that nobody could predict or control. That isn’t crime reporting! If you’re in the woods and see a gigantic bees’ nest, you go around it. You don’t say, ‘Reevis, get a big rock and whack that thing open and we’ll film whatever happens next.’ We lost the camera, my interview, and your precious confrontation footage. Am I missing anything?”