Page 48 of Passions in Death
The bartender shook her head. “Should’ve caught that. What’s the problem?”
“Who was on the stick last night, about seven-thirty to ten?”
“That would be me. Usually off at eight, but had to cover.”
Now Eve held up a screen shot of Greg’s ID picture.
“Greg? Come on, man, he can’t be in cop trouble.”
“Just verifying he was here last night.”
“Yeah, with his pal what’s-his-name. Give me a sec. Yeah, Clint. Couple of beers, loaded nachos. Their ladies were having a girl party. Greg comes in with his now and then. Pretty blond—that reddish blond type. They call it strawberry, but strawberries are red-red, so I don’t get that.”
Right there with you, Eve thought, but asked, “When did they leave?”
“Hell, hard to pin that down, but not late. I’m going to say before ten for sure. Friend wanted an early night. Greg toyed with hanging for one more beer, but decided to cash out and leave with the friend. Is that it?”
“That’s it. Thanks.”
“He’s a good guy,” the bartender added. “You can tell a good guy by how he treats his lady—or his guy, whichever. And he’ll ask how you’re doing and mean it. Tips decent.”
“Good to know.” Eve stepped away. “Time it,” she told Peabody. “Steady walk, we pause at the stall, then steady walk to the apartment building.”
“On your mark. He wouldn’t have to dodge and weave so much on the walk at going on ten.”
“It’ll be close enough. We’re going to take a look at the two women Erin flitted with who were at the party. Odds are she trusted them.”
“Because she flitted with them?”
“Because she stayed friendly with them, friendly enough to invite them to the girl party. Pause.”
Since they paused at the flower stall, Eve talked to the vendor.
“How late are you open?”
“Ten to ten, every day from May to October.”
He hit mid-sixties, Eve thought, neat as a parlor in a short-sleeved shirt and well-pressed khakis. He wore a blue fielder’s cap with a white daisy over a grizzled buzz cut, and metal-framed sunshades.
“You work the stall that late?”
“Oh, not me, honey.” He smiled so sweetly, she didn’t bite him for the honey. “My son comes on, takes over ’bout three most days. He brings a fresh supply in if we need it.”
Once again, Eve showed Greg’s ID shot. “You recognize him?”
“I sure do. He stops by, buys some of our pretties for his woman. Nice young fella.”
“That’s what we hear, thanks. That’s about how long it should’ve taken him to buy flowers,” Eve decided as they continued to walk.
They waited at the corner for the Walk signal.
“I’m starting to lose that buzz. Bartenders like him, flower vendors like him.” Peabody shook her head. “All those women like him.”
“And of course, likable people never kill anybody.”
“Well, they shouldn’t.” They crossed the street in the pedestrian stream. “I could see it more if it had been in the moment. Like—crime of passion. It gets harder to see when you know it was planned out—and planned on a night when they were celebrating.”
“Whoever killed her knew what was in the case. They’d have looked. Why wouldn’t they? Definitely not trustworthy when you’re going to garrote the bride. It’s a fairly slick kill. Stupid part was wasting time taking the jewelry, leaving the case. No half-blind cop would look at the scene and think mugging. And he should’ve taken the case—in fact never picked up the case in the first place.”
