Evelyn nodded, clearly fascinated. "Sex and/or money, every time."
"Yeah," he agreed. "Along with anger, drugs, and alcohol. Anyhow, none of that's changed over the years, so I'm hard put to say why I'm suddenly rethinking it all. It was… Hell, I don't know… I was sitting on the edge of his bed yesterday morning, looking around, trying to get a feel for the guy, and somehow, I just couldn't connect the dots. The reality of that room didn't fit my picture of a killer."
He leaned back, stretched his shoulders, and took a deep breath, smiling at her with his head slightly tilted to one side. "Impressive, huh? Not the kind of thing I'd admit to another cop, but that's how I feel. Leaves me kind of empty-handed, in more ways than one."
There was some noise at the front door, and five men entered, talking loudly to one another. Evelyn straightened and glanced at them, assessing whether they would head to the jukebox, the pool table, the bathroom, or the bar, and then returned to Joe as they split up and did all but the last for the time being.
"Let me get this straight," she said, speaking more quickly now that their quiet was about to end for the evening. "For thirty-plus years, nothing happens with this case; then you get lucky, find out where Norm's been hanging his hat, but as soon as you get here, he winds up dead. Only now you're not so sure he was the right guy to begin with. Is that it in a nutshell?"
"Pretty much."
"You don't think there's something weird about that?"
He looked at her seriously. "I most certainly do."
"What're you going to do about it?"
He didn't respond. He just kept his eyes on hers.
"Right," she finally said. "You've been sitting here for two days waiting to talk to me."
"Hoping to talk to you," he corrected her. "I know the spot you're in-the credibility you need to keep working here. I'm not asking to jam you up."
She took a couple of steps backward. The men were beginning to sort out their priorities and were heading for the bar.
"How the hell have you stayed a cop for so long?" she asked. "Don't other cops drive you crazy?"
He smiled and shrugged instead of answering. That wasn't something he wanted to try explaining.
Turning away to tend to her other customers, she glanced over her shoulder and said, "I get off at two this morning. Meet me at the end of the pier directly opposite." She pointed at the bar's entrance.
"Thanks," he said, watching her shift gears and fire off a one-liner as she approached the first man to grab a stool.
Gloucester was still a busy town at two in the morning, at least in comparison to Brattleboro, so Joe sat thoroughly entertained on a strategically placed bench at the end of the designated pier. Across the narrow harbor, what he thought might be a packing plant was still open full throttle, its lights blazing and its mechanical heart throbbing deep within. On Main Street, traffic flowed periodically, often accompanied by boisterous shouts and the occasional horn blast. And in the distance, across the decks of several bobbing fishing boats, he could make out a man still working on some piece of equipment by the harsh light of a halogen lamp, the music from his softly playing radio barely audible on the gentle waves of a surprisingly warm, salt-flavored breeze.
And yet, there was quiet amid the groaning of docked vessels and the slap of taut lines against unseen masts-even an unsettling sense of isolation. It wasn't hard to imagine how easily a man could be waylaid, not a hundred yards from where Joe was sitting, and have a knife silently slipped into the center of his heart.
She emerged from the neon lights like a shadow detaching from the night, at first more a sensation than an actual outline, her footsteps covered by the soft lapping of the tide against the pier's pilings.
He smiled to himself as she drew into the feeble glow from across the water. Out of the bar's embrace, she was dressed in light sweatpants and a shirt, her physical attributes no longer available to any possibly good tipper.
She sat next to him without ceremony or greeting, stretching her legs out before her and sighing deeply. "God, it smells good out here, especially after eight hours in that dump."
"You come out here often after work?"
"Sometimes. It's a mood thing. There're nights it gives me the creeps just to walk from the front door to my car. Lot of strange people in this town."
"How was it tonight?"
She glanced at him, her expression covered by the darkness. "That's right. You left early. It was okay-average."
"I couldn't take two nights of straight Cokes in a row."
She liked that. "You on the wagon? Must be tough hanging out in a bar."
"No," he admitted. "I just gave it up. I never drank much to begin with, but I finally got tired of seeing what it did to people."
She grunted softly. "Christ. Got that right."
"You hungry?" he asked suddenly, offering her a small paper bag.
She straightened quickly and turned toward him, accepting the gift. "You kidding? Starving. I usually go to the diner after I get off."
He smiled. "I know-lobster roll and a strawberry shake. I heard you trading eating habits with your gin rummy partner."
Surprised, she tore open the bag and reached inside. "I don't believe it. That's right." He saw the flash of her teeth in the gloom as she laughed. "You are too much. Thanks."
Without further ceremony, she took a large bite and settled back onto the bench, contentedly chewing, her eyes on the stars overhead. "God," she finally said, "that hits the spot. You want a bite?"
He held up his hand. "No, I'm fine. I might take a hit off the milkshake later, though. Big sweet tooth."
"Oh, right," she responded, diving into the bag again and extracting the waxy cup. "Take the first sip."
He did so as she ate more of her meal, and then placed the cup beside her. "How long have you been working there?"
"A few years-eight, maybe. Time flies. It's not my only job. I'm a freelance typist, too, and I do the books for the day-care center at the end of my block. I tend bar mostly for social reasons. It gets me out of the house without worrying about dates and all the mess that goes with them."
"The bar as safety net?"
She spoke with her mouth full. "Yeah. That sounds pathetic, doesn't it?"
"Maybe a little lonely." He hesitated and then took a gamble, adding, "I saw the small exchange between you and the guy with the hair and tattoos and the expensive taste in Scotch."
She stopped chewing abruptly, and he worried that he'd overstepped. But finally, all she did was nod several times before swallowing.
"You're pretty observant." She sighed again, this time less contentedly. "There's nothing going on there, needless to say. That's just Kenny being Kenny. And me being a total patsy, basically a wannabe lapdog."
"That's a little harsh," he countered.
"Yeah, well, maybe," she agreed. "The flip side to my being a bartender, I guess, is that I get to watch everyone doing what I don't have the guts to do myself. I can act superior and pretend that so-and-so's looking bad, and such-and-such is going to regret waking up next to her in the morning, but who's kidding who, you know? I'd trade places with any one of them in a shot. The closest I get is slipping Kenny a freebie to make him look good to his buddies."
"That might not be so dumb."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't I know it. I have a twenty-year-old daughter. Been there, done that, lost the T-shirt doin' it."