Page 53 of Pied Sniper

“Is he drunk?”

“Delgado or Brett?”

“Brett!”

“He didn’t say but given that the lead paid off, I’m guessing he’s not entirely sober.”

“Would you be sober if I were kidnapped?” I wondered.

Solomon shot me a look. “Every time,” he said with a sigh.

“I know that. I meant, everyone takes things differently. He probably heard about it and is worried sick so he turned to the bottle for some solace. Not everyone is as proactive as you.”

“Even so. It would make more sense to go to the police. Or Abigail. He might have vital information. At the very least, he should make sure he’s not a suspect.”

“Could he possibly not know?”

“It’s all over the news,” pointed out Solomon.

“He would have to turn the news on to see or hear it.”

“He almost certainly has a cellphone.”

“Ditto to turning that on too.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” We parked outside the downtown bar Delgado directed us to and hopped out. The bar wasn’t the most salubrious in the area but it wasn’t the worst either. The windows were tinted dark, making it hard for pedestrians to see inside and the interior was dimly lit. The bar covered one side of the room and two huge TV screens above it replayed baseball game highlights. The bartender looked up from his clipboard when we entered. Solomon nodded to him and looked around. Delgado raised a hand and we walked over to his table where he waited with a cup of coffee.

“That’s him,” said Delgado, nodding to the man nursing a small glass of amber liquid. With a gray ballcap pulled low over his eyes, a week-old beard stubble, and the collar of his fleece-lined denim jacket turned up, it was hard to tell whom he was.

“Are you sure?” I asked, squinting. Jonathan Brett usually appeared so well put together. Today, he looked like he’d been laid off and was ending a two-day drinking jag.

“Positive,” said Delgado. “The bartender said he’s been here for a couple of hours. Been staring at that drink ever since I got here.”

“Are the other glasses his too?” I asked, counting the beer schooners and whiskey shot glasses.

“Yep.”

“How do you want to play this?” asked Solomon.

“Like this,” I replied, taking off for Jonathan Brett’s table. “Hi,” I said, sitting opposite him.

“Get lost,” said the man, glancing up at me briefly before dropping his gaze again.

“Ah, no.”

This time, he looked up, assessed me and heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping. “I’m not going to buy you a drink,” he said at last. “You might as well beat it.”

“I don’t want a drink. I need your help.”

He looked up again. “Money? What are you anyway?”

“No, again.” I pulled out a business card and held it out to him. When he didn’t take it, I placed it in front of his glass. “I’m a private investigator, Lexi Graves. Abigail Swanson hired me to find Tiffany Rose.”

“And what makes you think I can help? Maybe I don’t even know those people.”

“Well, for one, you’re the boyfriend, Jonathan Brett, so, yes, you do. Two, you don’t need me to clarify who either Abigail or Tiffany are.”

He glanced up again, angry until a sense of resignation filled his face. He shrugged. “Shouldn’t be hard to find her. That bitch is everywhere. Try her apartment. Or maybe the most expensive restaurant, boutique, or hair salon you can find.”

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