“We’ll do our best to see it doesn’t happen, Mr. Hodges,” Mike said. “Good night, and thank you again.”
Mike had her cell to her ear before they got in the Crown Vic. “Ben, we’ve got a real live lead on COE. You need to get a team of agents to Mr. Richard Hodges’s house in Bayonne.” She gave him the address. “I’m also thinking it would be smart to get a sketch artist out here, too, in case we can’t get an ID on the drunk guy from the Dominion’s bartender. But the protection for him is the most important. Just a precaution, but it’d make me feel better.”
Ben was now as hyped as they were. “Come on, Mike, what did the guy tell you?”
“Not good, Ben. There may be a bombing at Bayway.”
3
PAWN TO C4
Mike pulled in across from the Dominion Bar on Broadway in Bayonne, not five minutes from Mr. Hodges’s house.
Nicholas checked out the cozy-looking neighborhood bar, heard no wild yells, no blaring music. “Maybe they have food. A pizza would be good. I’m ready to chew off my arm at the elbow.”
“If they don’t, there’s a pizza place next door that’s still got its lights on. We can get a slice.”
“A slice? You’re talking like a girl. I want a whole pie all to myself. I’ll bet you could eat a whole pie, too.”
He was right about that. “Bartender first, then stomachs.”
Inside, the Dominion Bar was all dark wood, dim lights, and a long varnished copper bar with wine bottles lined up on shelves along the mirrored wall. There were twenty stools and six booths. It was a place for local couples on dates, or people stopping in after work before heading home, or for widowed men to feel comfortable to have human contact, and Nicholas wondered: Did the drunk live in the neighborhood?
Mike read his mind. “Mr. Hodges said he’d seen the guy before, which means he’s a regular. Since this place isn’t a dive, I can’t imagine he’s a low-on-the-food-chain roughneck. Probably he’s at least a supervisor at Bayway, otherwise he wouldn’t fit in here.”
They walked through the large room, checking out the few remaining Monday-night customers. Mike checked everyone out. “I don’t see any guy here who remotely fits Mr. Hodges’s description. Or the guy’s friend.”
Mike showed her creds to the Dominion bartender, the owner, Mr. Hodges had told them, a tiny woman who looked like a middle-aged Peter Pan. She was wiping down the bar, humming an old Elton John tune under her breath. Over a healthy right breast was a nametag: May Anne.
Mike introduced both herself and Nicholas.
They saw instant alarm. “What’s the matter? I didn’t do anything, I promise. I own this place and I’ve never had any health violations, ever, and—”
“No,” Mike said over her. “We simply need information. Do you know a Mr. Richard Hodges?”
“Dicker? Well, yes, of course I do. He comes in most every night. He always has the house merlot, tells me how his day went, asks me how I’m doing, and then goes home to bacon sandwiches. It’s a shame about his wife; she was such a nice lady. Listen, I know Dicker wouldn’t have done anything, really—”
Nicholas lightly laid his hand on her arm. “No, Mr. Hodges is fine, he’s in no trouble. He was here earlier tonight?”
“Yes, he was. Is he okay? Has something happened to him?”
“No, no, he’s fine, May Anne. We need your help. Now, we need to know if you remember a man who was sitting right behind Mr. Hodges, in a booth, a very drunk man. Tall, on the thin side, grayish hair, middle-aged—”