“Honor me. Worship me….”
The darkness was growing, taking on form and mass, like something living.
There was a tomb just beyond the graves of the little children, and in that thick darkness, the age-old etching began to gleam red—red, the color of blood….
Bloody ink, spelling out the name of the deceased.
Rowenna Eileen Donahue.
13
Brad was waiting at the bar when Jeremy arrived.
He was running his fingers up and down the glass of beer he was drinking, evidently fascinated with the frost that had formed on the outside, but at least he appeared calm and in control.
“Anything?” he asked hopefully, as Jeremy slid onto the stool next to him.
“Not really, but I’ve had some interesting conversations,” Jeremy told him. “How are you doing?”
Brad nodded gravely. Jeremy could tell that he was sober; it looked as if the beer was his first. “I got a copy of the police flier—you know, with the pictures of Dinah Green and Mary.” His voice went husky at the end. “I couldn’t just sit around all day, so I drove north, stopped in every town I could find and showed the flier to people. Everyone was sympathetic, but no one had seen either one of them.”
Jeremy already knew that neither woman had ever gotten north of the area; he knew the trail for both had ended right here. But Brad was right; he’d needed to be doing something, and it was always a mistake when investigating to count on what you “knew” without eliminating every possibility.
“So what about your conversations?” Brad asked.
The bartender came over with a beer for Jeremy. It was the same guy who’d been on duty before, Hugh. Thirty-something, balding, stocky and pleasant. “Hi, good to see you again,” he said.
Jeremy nodded, and thanked the man for his beer.
“So you know she was in here, right?” Brad said, before Jeremy could answer his earlier question. “Dinah Green? Seems like half the town saw her in here with some guy. Big tough-guy type.”
The bartender hadn’t gone far, and now he moved back over to them, looking at Jeremy, and leaned on the bar, speaking in a confidential tone. “I served her. I served Dinah Green. Did Brad tell you?” he asked. “She drank Cosmos, and the guy was a whiskey, neat.”
“So you must have been able to describe him for the cops.”
“Yeah. They sent a sketch artist right over, but they’re not going to need all that—I had something better to give the cops,” he said, clearly pleased with himself.
“The guy’s credit card receipt?” Jeremy asked.
Hugh looked deflated, and Jeremy felt immediately sorry for having spoken.
“Yeah. How’d you…Oh, yeah. It’s what you do,” Hugh said.
“The thing is,” Brad said, “and I don’t know whether it’s a good sign or a bad one, but if this guy—”
“His name is Tim Richardson,” Hugh volunteered. “Address in Little Italy, in Boston.”
“I wonder if they knew one another back in Boston,” Jeremy said.
“The thing is, no one saw Tim Richardson here on Halloween,” Brad said, then went on hopefully. “So maybe…maybe Mary is safe somewhere.” A tormented look came over his face. “But then, where is she? And why? Mary wouldn’t disappear on purpose. I know it. But after finding Dinah’s corpse, the cops think all we have to do is find Dinah Green’s killer and then we’ll find Mary. But if the two cases aren’t connected, we’re wasting time when we could be looking for Mary while she’s still alive. And she is still alive. She has to be.”
“Brad,” Jeremy said, setting a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “just because Dinah Green was with this guy at the bar, we don’t know that he killed her.”
“It was the last time she was seen,” Brad said stubbornly.
“And he was with her,” Hugh added.
Jeremy studied Hugh. “Did they leave together?” he asked.
Hugh frowned and flushed. “I don’t know,” he admitted.
“They were both at the bar, right?” Jeremy asked.
“Yeah, but it got busy real fast that night. I ended up running a few of the tables, too. The guy had paid his tab, and they were still talking when…I served a veal Oscar. Yeah, over there, table two. I could see that the girls were rushed off their feet out on the floor, and one of the kitchen guys brings the food out to the end of the bar when it’s busy, so I helped out. So no, I didn’t actually see them leave.”
“Maybe someone else did,” Jeremy said. “Did the police take the receipts from that night?”
“Hey, we’re talking weeks ago now—the receipts are all turned in,” Hugh said.
“So how did you get the info for the police?” Jeremy asked.
“The computer.”
“Can you print me out a list of the receipts for that night? Not now, I know you’re working, but later? I can pick it up in the morning.”