There was a shuffling sound, and Ava eased her hand onto the grip of her Glock. Maybe she should have told someone where she was going.
The door opened wide, and there stood the giant who’d started the bar fight, wearing pajama bottoms, an off-white t-shirt, and a loose cotton robe that didn’t meet in the middle. Ava was five-ten and this guy made her feel like a gnat. He was balding with glasses and a bristly mustache. His eyes looked like those of every photograph of every serial killer she’d ever seen. Maybe this wasn’t the smartest idea she’d ever had. He squinted at her and sighed gustily. She got a face full of stale booze and bad breath.
“I didn’t realize a bar brawl was a federal offense.”
Disturbing the peace, assault, battery—there were a lot of potential charges to arise from something as seemingly innocuous as a bar fight. And if Ava and Sheridan had arrested this man, maybe Sheridan wouldn’t have driven into a telephone pole.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Come on in.” He let go of the knob and walked away, leaving her little choice but to follow.
But before she stepped inside, she texted Feldman’s address to Sheridan with a time stamp and “Going in.” It might not prevent anything happening to her if this guy was a psycho, but at least her colleagues would know where to start looking for the body.
She walked inside the house and was pleasantly surprised by the simple decor and classy color scheme. The floors were hardwood and the rugs looked Persian but could be Ikea for all she knew. She followed him through to the kitchen which looked freshly renovated with pale shaker cupboards and a large farmer’s sink. Feldman sat on a sturdy kitchen chair at a big wooden table.
“You have a beautiful home, Mr. Feldman.”
He looked at her with small beady eyes. “It’s what I do.”
She raised her brow in question. The strong smell of metabolized alcohol pervaded the room and stole some of its charm.
“I renovate old homes and restore them to their former glory. Actually, I make them even better.” He went over to the freezer, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, wrapped them in a dishtowel and pressed them to the knuckles of his right hand as he sat back down again. “The guy I hit changed his mind? You came to press charges?”
“No, sir. Although Mr. Gardner”—the man he’d punched—“might still file charges.”
Feldman grimaced. “It’s probably a good thing I’m self-employed.”
“You get in fights often?”
He grimaced. “It’s been known.”
Ava ran her hand over the smooth surface of the island, hoping to put the guy at ease. “This is a nice piece. Marble?”
“Actually, it’s a rare piece of pale granite I found. Easier to look after than marble. Stains less.”
“Nice.”
Feldman nodded and picked up a tall glass of water. He drank deeply.
“You said that a woman told you Mr. Gardner beat her. Did she approach you directly and ask you to intervene on her behalf?”
A frown pushed bushy eyebrows together. “I came out of the washroom, and this woman stumbled away from me and started sobbing. I asked her if she was okay. At first, she wouldn’t tell me what the matter was, but finally she admitted she was scared of the guy in the red shirt sitting at the bar.”
“What did you do then?”
He gave a slightly embarrassed shrug and placed the frozen peas against his jaw. “Charged off like an idiot to deal with the guy.”
“What did the woman do?”
He shrugged, and Ava avoided looking at the strip of stomach that movement revealed. “I don’t know. I was thrown out. I didn’t see her again.”
Ava had no proof that someone spiked Sheridan’s drink, or even knew what it meant if someone had. Was it opportunistic? Some clown sticking it to the Feds? Or had someone followed them from Van’s?
If she was wrong, if Sheridan had snorted some bad coke or had an aneurysm behind the wheel, she was going to look like a goddamn fruitcake with her conspiracy theories.
Hence coming here alone…but she often worked alone. She was in a small office and there weren’t always the resources to work in pairs—especially as everyone else was working overtime on the Mortimer shooting.
Worry for Sheridan kept tugging at her nerves. She wanted to see him and make sure he was okay, but she had no right. He wouldn’t want her there—she barely knew the guy.
“You ever seen the woman in the bar before tonight?” she asked.
“No, it was my first time in the place. Plus, I was so drunk I could barely see.”
And yet he’d driven home…
“Would you consider talking to a police sketch artist and trying to recreate a likeness of the woman?” Ava didn’t know if it would be useful or not.
“Why are you so concerned with her? Why not go after the boyfriend?”
Ava rolled her lips. “The thing is, Mr. Feldman, Mr. Gardner says he doesn’t have a girlfriend and denies hitting anyone—except you.”
A cold smile tugged at Feldman’s lips. “Do they ever confess to being wife beaters?”
She recognized it immediately, that soul deep knowledge of abuse reflected deep in his eyes.
“No, they don’t admit it, but…I’d really like your help trying to track her down.”
If the woman had been telling the truth then maybe Ava could help her. If she’d been lying to create a diversion, then Ava wanted to know that too.
After a few moments Feldman nodded and climbed to his feet, looming over her with a pained expression. It crossed her mind that this guy could have made up the woman, or be working in conjunction with her. Coming here alone was unwise to say the least.
He grimaced and pressed a finger to his temple. “I’ll work with a sketch artist, but I don’t know that I’m going to remember much in the morning.”