Page 97 of Water's Edge

“I couldn’t represent someone that I believed to be guilty.”

It’s a straight answer. I had her pegged for one of those rich kids that tried too hard to show that they weren’t entitled or privileged. Her wardrobe screams privilege. I can’t afford her footwear. But, like her, I’m not in this job for the money. I’m in it to find and end the assholes who prey on other people. The killers. The rapists. Kidnappers. Like her, I could never represent anyone like that. Unlike her, I don’t want to arrest them. I want them gone permanently.

“How about you, Megan?”

I don’t answer.

“Let’s see what we can find at the bar.”

The Front Street Alibi is located between Baskin Robbins and the Wok. Parking is on the side. It’s just after noon and the lot is almost full. A karaoke stage is in the back, the bar and kitchen are to my left, seating is to the right. A sign over the bar says, “Happy Hour All Day.” That’s why there were no parking spaces left. The place is full, and everyone is drinking and talking loudly.

There are two bartenders behind the bar. One is a male who looks to be underage. The other, a female, is in her forties or fifties with a beer belly peeking below her midriff peasant blouse.

The woman asks, “What you having?”

I show her my badge. Ronnie, thankfully, has worn civvies today. She takes out her reserve deputy badge case and shows it to the bartender.

“What are you having?” the woman asks again. “Lots of badges come in here. Most of ’em this time of day. Drinks are on the house for cops.”

“We’re not here for a drink,” I say. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Ain’t we all, honey,” she says.

Ronnie pulls out the picture we found in Larry’s file on Margie Benton.

“Do you know her?” I ask.

She barely glances at the photo and then back to me. “What do you want with Marge?”

“So you do know her?”

“Yeah. Iknewher. She’s dead. What’s Jefferson County want her for?”

“You knew her when she worked here?”

She nods and swipes at the bar with a clean white towel. “She’s been dead going on two years now. What’s this about?”

“I’m looking for the bastard who killed her,” I say.

She stops wiping the bar top, looks me in the eyes, and stretches her words out, “’Bout goddamn time.”

The bartender’s name is Missy Johnson. Not surprisingly, she knows Detective Larry Gray. She knows him very well. Missy confided in us that she knows Larry is married, but he’s a smooth talker. She tells us she met Larry after Margie was found murdered and he came around asking questions. He had been an infrequent customer before that, but he became a regular. At least three nights a week until closing, and then he was a regular at her place.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she says. “Larry’s a great guy. But I don’t think he cares about his job. Not even a little. He’s just riding out his time to retirement.”

“What do you know about Margie’s murder?”

She looks around the bar, then back at me. “I’ll tell you what I told him, and that was a while back, so stay with me.”

Margie used to tend bar with Missy. They were great friends. Margie was well-liked. Maybe a little too much. She had a regular following, but then, that’s not unusual for a bartender. Except Margie got pregnant by one of her customers about three years back, had the baby at home, and gave it up for adoption. The adoption was kind of under the table. According to Missy, Margie needed money and she didn’t need a kid. She said they disagreed on that, but they stayed friends until Margie got knocked up again.

“She was pregnant when she was killed. But you already know that. I think she was maybe four or five months along. She didn’t know whose it was or even when she got pregnant. We really had a falling-out when she told me she was going to give that one away too. She already had a young couple interested. She was a bitch; not to speak ill of the dead. She didn’t mind giving the baby up. She was only sorry that she wasn’t getting more money.”

Now I knew why Larry hadn’t worked any harder on the murder.

He figured Margie wasn’t worth the effort. The idea made me sick. She wasn’t just a hooker, as Larry called her. She was a baby factory.

“Do you know of any regular who had a problem with Margie?”

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