Warmer weather hadn’t improved the ambiance. Will drove into a weed-trimmed parking lot. Sunny saw a few pickups, some vans, a couple of cars that could only be called beaters, and of course, motorcycles. Rolling his truck to a stop, Will got out and opened the door for Mike and Sunny. They reached the plywood slab that served as the bar’s front door and heaved at it—last night’s rain had swollen the wood in place. With a good yank, Will got it open, and they went in.
A yellowish-gray cloud hung in the air. The state of Maine might have banned barroom smoking, but O’Dowd’s didn’t follow no stinkin’ ordinances. Patrons in here continued to blithely light up. The jukebox with its overamped bass still thumped away, while folks at the bar and at the tables did their best to scream over the noise.
Scanning the room, Sunny spotted a few Bridgewater Hall staff members—they must have all owed Luke favors or something, she figured. They sat in little islands, distinct among the regulars. Sunny spotted Elsa Hogue and Jack the physical therapist sitting at one table, Elsa looking very uncomfortable.
“Let’s see if we can join them,” Sunny yelled to her dad and Will.
“Do you want something to drink?” Will bellowed.
“Beer—in a bottle,” Sunny screeched.
“Me, too,” Mike bawled out.
Sunny led the way over to the therapists while Will headed for the bar. Elsa and Jack were happy for company. Mike tried to carry on a conversation while Sunny watched Will’s progress at the bar. It was like watching a silent movie—if silent movies were scored by Steppenwolf.
As Will got closer and closer to the bar, Jasmine the barmaid showed more and more interest. Jasmine had been the local sex symbol during Sunny’s college days. Now she had too much skin pushed into too little clothing, a bad dye job, and a missing tooth. Still, she did a good come-hither routine until Will was close enough for her to recognize him as a cop. Then her face shut down to a sullen mask as she sold him three bottles of beer.
He returned to the table with a wad of napkins, using them to twist the tops off and wipe the mouths of the bottles. Sunny shouted her thanks, accepted one of the bottles, and took a sip. It had been a while, but apparently some things never change. Cold beer after a warm day remained a good combination.
She saw Luke Daconto come around from the back of the bar carrying a microphone stand and a small amplifier, which he set up on the raised dais that housed the jukebox. Then he vanished, only to return again with his guitar case. Most of the bar denizens didn’t even pay attention as he tuned up. Luke looked at Jasmine and nodded. She came from behind the bar, reaching around the back of the jukebox to pull the plug. There were some raucous moans and groans while she vainly signaled for silence. Sunny could barely hear her shouting, “Live music tonight!”
After her third fruitless attempt, Jasmine shrugged, causing a ponderous jiggle to run through her extra flesh, and returned behind the bar. Luke finished arranging the mic, slung his guitar strap over one shoulder, and stood with his hands on his hips, just staring at the seething barroom. It took a few minutes, but people began to glance over in his direction . . . and shut up.
Finally, there were just a couple of drunken boobs laughing at one another’s jokes. Luke dropped the microphone down to guitar level and struck a jangling discord that boomed out through the amplifier.
“Sorry,” he said, readjusting the mic back in line with his lips. “My guitar farted.”
And with that, he launched into a jagged version of “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.”
Will leaned toward Sunny. “Got to give him one thing,” he whispered with beer-laced breath. “He’s got stones.”
12
It wasn’t four a.m. when the phone rang this time—it just felt that way to Sunny. After a couple of beers she wasn’t accustomed to anymore and a somewhat late night, even an eight a.m. call had her nerves jangling.
“H-h’lo?” Her voice was hoarse and raspy from yelling over the noise at O’Dowd’s. Luke had won the crowd over, even doing an encore. But congratulating him on his success had been a little difficult when the jukebox came on again. Sunny coughed, trying to clear away a film of cigarette smoke and beer in her throat—or was that just in her head? “Who is this?”
“Ms. Coolidge? It’s Rafe Warner.”
That got her eyes open. “Is there a problem? Is Mr. Barnstable okay?”
“Sure,” Rafe replied. “I was just talking with him. He gave me your number.”
Sunny slowly raised herself to a sitting position. “And why was that?”
“I’m getting off my shift now,” Rafe said, “and I’ve got something to give you.” His voice sank to a whisper. “Files.”
“What kind—” Sunny got out, but Rafe cut her off.
“I can’t discuss this on the phone,” he said. “I can be at your house in half an hour. Mr. Barnstable gave me the address.”
Thanks, Ollie, Sunny thought.
“Half an hour,” Rafe repeated. “I’ll see you then.” Obviously it wasn’t up for discussion, because he cut the connection.
Sunny stared owlishly at the receiver in her hand, hung it up, and then grabbed the handset again. She punched in Will Price’s number. When he picked up, he sounded awake and much more human than Sunny felt.
“Files?” he said when Sunny told her story. “Intriguing. Be there in fifteen.”
That gave Sunny enough time to run a shower and get the fug of O’Dowd’s out of her hair. She sat drinking a large mug of coffee when Will rang the bell. He was in jeans and a T-shirt, and so was she.
“I see we’re both dressed to spend the day sorting through files,” he said with a smile.
“The question is, what are they, and how many?”
“I’m betting this is the stuff we asked Reese for.” Will leaned against the front of the refrigerator.
“The stuff he told us it was illegal to give out?”
Will didn’t answer. He stared at the coffeemaker, noticeably inhaling the brewing smell the way Shadow savored a rare scent. Sunny sat up a little straighter. Speaking of Shadow, where was he? He hadn’t been in her room, nor was he around when she came downstairs . . . She finally woke up enough to catch Will’s hints. “Oh. Sorry. Would you like some coffee?” Sunny poured him a cup and sat at the table.
Will added a little milk and sugar to his cup, took a sip, and sighed. “I told you cops live on this stuff. Do I dare ask who makes the coffee in this house?”
“That pot was my dad’s,” Sunny told him. “I found it on when I got down here, along with a note telling me he was off for his walk. Stick around, and you’ll get to try a pot of mine.”
Now that they’d both had their caffeine fixes, the conversation began to flow.
“We know Warner has a mole in Reese’s office,” Will said. “They must have overheard us with the big guy.”
“So Rafe is just going to give us what we want?” Sunny didn’t share Will’s morning optimism. “Why?”
The doorbell rang. Will grinned. “I guess we’ll just have to ask him.”
She opened the door to find a jittery Rafe, standing with a sheaf of papers in his hands. He thrust them over to her. “You don’t know where these came from, got it?”
When he turned to go, Will caught him by the arm. “We may not know who gave them to us, but I’d like to know what they are. Come in and have some coffee.”
Rafe reluctantly accepted a cup. They all sat at the table, the small pile of papers in the middle. Rafe kept looking at them as if he feared they’d explode. “There’s a list of the people who passed away in the last year and a half. Well, cases. Their names are blotted out, but I left the dates and the cause of death.”