Page 3 of Dodge

“That the perp’s here in Upper Falls. And he tells me something else. The killer’s found out I’m full-time on the case now and’s going to do whatever it takes to nail me. See, I have kind of a reputation: I never stop till the perp’s collared.”

“So he’s gunning for you at the same time you’re gunning for him.”

“That’s it, Deputy. Except for one thing: the killer’s not a ‘he.’”

“You seen this man?”

She flashed her phone at the bartender. He looked up with a vaguely out of alignment expression. He was a tall blond of an age somewhere between thirty and fifty. He clearly partook of the wares he sold.

He looked first at her gray eyes and then at the phone, his face ill at ease.

Constant Marlowe was still as a cat eying an unfortunate sparrow.

Studying the picture. “No.”

“Look again.”

He did. “No.”

She lowered the phone. “I saw him walk out the front door here ten minutes ago.” Her voice was low and more raspy than usual.

He wasn’t happy that she’d snagged him in a lie with her trap. He decided to ignore her and returned to dunking glasses in a glass-dunking soapy water thing.

Marlowe said, “Let’s try it again. The truth. I’m going to show you another picture, another man.” She leaned forward a bit more. “And I don’t have time for bullshit.”

She was in fact on a tight timetable.

Was he wondering if he was in physical danger? Probably not. The gaunt woman was five six and 120 pounds and not toting a kitchen knife or ax, and the bartender would surely havesome defenses against the creepy meth crowd wandering through Upper Falls like bit players in a zombie movie. At least there’d be a fish-knocking club under the bar, and likely a firearm.

Still, somebody’d once said she was a walking high-tension wire, and you never knew when crazy might rear. She’d be telegraphing some of this now.

“Look, miss ...”

She displayed the shot. The dark-haired man in the image was in his forties, wearing a suit jacket and tieless white shirt. A good-looking, if nondescript businessman. He was gazing off to the side and didn’t appear to know he was being photographed. The Chicago lakefront was in the background.

He studied this one hard. Maybe she’d go away. “No. I don’t think so. I can tell you he’s not a regular.”

“No. He wouldn’t be. He’s not local. I’m just asking if you saw him here, or maybe around town.”

He sighed. “No, lady. Haven’t seen anybody like that. You know, it’s policy you don’t order anything you gotta leave.” Clearly he was hoping she’d be forced out on this technicality. He took to studying the hot water once more.

Pale afternoon light bled through the smeared and fly-dotted windows of what called itself a tap room, in which were twenty tables and six patrons.

“When does the next bartender come on?”

“Okay. I really gotta ask you to go.”

“A Coke, Pepsi.” She put a fifty down.

Another sigh. “I can’t change that.”

“Not asking you to. Take a look at the picture again.”

He glanced behind her. “Keep your money. It’s on the house. Drink up and leave. Please. There’s a restaurant up the street. Out the door you turn right, you can’t miss it. Odie’s Café. Maybe you’ll have some luck there. And the pies can’t be beat.”

He looked back to the suds when her expression made clear she didn’t give a shit about pie.

Two stools down was a heavy man, who looked sixty but was probably younger. She walked up to him, showed him the phone and was about to speak.

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