Chapter Thirteen. Otter was perched on a high bar stool in an establishment that most just called Dugan’s

Otter was perched on a high bar stool in an establishment that most just called Dugan’s. The neon sign outside said Dugan’s Authentic Irish Pub and Grub. The proprietor, a plump Norwegian with a droopy mustache, polished glasses behind the bar. He’d bought the place a couple of years earlier and kept the name, even though the former owner took many of the authentic Irish decorations with him when he left. It would have cost too much to replace the sign. Now all that was left was the Bass Ale on tap, the Wednesday lunch special--corned beef and cabbage--and a lot of cheap green paper shamrocks tacked to the walls.

There were about twenty other people in Dugan’s at the moment. A few were shooting pool at the two tables in the back, and three couples sat at tables eating sandwiches or the special of the day. The rest were on bar stools watching the latest sports scores on ESPN. The place did draw in the occasional curious or thirsty tourist, but it was a neighborhood bar and everyone in it at the moment was a regular, except for Otter.

He was on his third beer and had had no luck pumping the locals. No one had seen Hunter. He was patient. He decided to stop trying for the moment. He was content to get a pleasant buzz from the beer and maybe put a few dollars on a game of pool later.

A small bell tinkled--the door opening to admit another thirsty patron. Otter, bored, turned at the sound and glanced around. The newcomer was a tall, thin man dressed in the tan insulated Carhartt overalls that pegged him as a farmer or at least someone who worked outside a lot. He had a weather-beaten face that was deeply lined though he was probably only in his forties. He walked to the bar and stood two bar stools down from Otter as he waved at the bartender.

"Hey, Karl, gimme a draft, wouldja?" the man said, unzipping the top of his coveralls. He set his hat and gloves on the bar.

"How’s it going, Marty?" the bartender replied, drawing the beer and setting it in front of the man.

"Same old, same old," Marty said. "Been up on the roof shoveling snow. Got an ice dam up there again this year, and it’s been leaking into my den. Would’ve gotten my TV if I hadn’t caught it when I did." He sipped his beer and glanced up at the latest hockey scores. "Heard anything more about what happened to Sam?"

"Not really," Karl replied. "Mike was in yesterday. Said they still don’t have much. Sam told him just before he died that he was meeting with a woman client. You know Sam--said she sounded sexy on the phone and wanted to take a sightseeing tour, just her alone, so he was looking forward to it. That’s about all they have to go on."

Otter, who’d been only half listening, tuned in to the conversation beside him while appearing outwardly to take no notice of the two men. He stared at the TV but didn’t see it, waiting for the bartender to continue.

"The sheriff called in the state police to fingerprint Sam’s office," Karl said. "But they said it was useless. Too many customers been in and out of there, and you know that place never got cleaned."

"What about Riley?" Marty asked.

"Up in Canada on some job the last week or so, they think. Probably doesn’t know yet."

"They ever find the knife?"

"Nope," said the bartender. "And there was nothing in Sam’s stuff about the client. The last page of his appointment book had been ripped out."

Marty shook his head. "Hard to believe a woman could do that."

"Yeah," Karl replied, moving away to the end of the bar to fill a waitress’s drink order.

Otter turned to Marty. "Get a little excitement here?" he asked.

Marty turned to look at Otter and nodded. "Yeah, friend of ours was killed a few days ago. Got his throat cut. Hell of a way to go." He wore a mournful expression and shook his head again as if he still had trouble comprehending the news. "Couldn’t have had much in the cash register. Summer and fall were really his busy seasons. He had a helicopter and did mostly tourist flights up over Lake Superior and back."

Otter’s expression remained impassive, but his heartbeat had doubled with the latest bit of news. "And they think a woman did it?" he asked.

"Yeah," Marty said. "Sam didn’t do much this time of year except make occasional deliveries to places out in the sticks. He had a route of regular stops. But he didn’t have any the day he died. Only some woman tourist he was supposed to take up to the lake. He was good with the women, y’know. Got a lot of pretty clients to go out with him."

"Well, I’m sorry about your friend," Otter said. "Where’d all this happen?"

Marty nodded at the condolences. "A little airstrip north of town," he said. "Nothing much else around. That’s why they don’t have much to go on. Nobody saw anything."

Otter got up from his bar stool and placed a few bills on the counter, then turned to leave. He paused beside Marty and said, "Don’t worry. What comes around, goes around--someone will find her." And that someone will be me.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-30