One of the lessons Dave Thompson had harped on over and over again in those first few days of instruction was the importance of officer safety. It would have been easy to dismiss the advice of a likely Peeping Tom who was also suspected of attacking Leann Jessup. But now Joanna was living with the growing suspicion that somehow Dave Thompson was also a victim. If that turned out to be the case, maybe his advice merited some attention.
Putting down the purse and unbuttoning her shirt, she slipped the Kevlar vest on over her bra. She had ordered her own custom-made set of soft body armor, but until it arrived, she was stuck wearing Andy’s ill-fitting and uncomfortable castoff vest. By the time she put on a jacket that was roomy enough to cover both the vest and her shoulder-holstered Colt, she felt like a hulking uniformed football player. In comparison, Carol Strong’s small-of-back holster had disappeared completely, even on her thin, slender frame.
Joanna stopped by the pool long enough to tell Jim Bob and Jenny she was going out for a while; then she drove straight to the Roundhouse. As expected, Butch Dixon was on duty. He brought her drink without any of his accustomed camaraderie. Only when he set it in front of her did she realize she had screwed up.
If the Roundhouse was a common denominator, that meant so was Butch Dixon. What if he .. .
Joanna took a sip of her drink. “This tastes more like diet Coke than Diet Pepsi.”
He grinned and nodded. “Good taste buds. Got some in special, just for you. Ask for it by name. Joanna Brady Private Reserve Diet Coke. If I’m not here, tell Phil it’s in the fridge next to my A and W of beer.”
It was hard to persist in believing that someone that thoughtful would also be a serial killer. Joanna raised her glass in salute. “Thanks,” she said.
“You bet,” he said. But then the grin disappeared and Butch shook his head. “I just can’t seem to get Dave Thompson out of my head today. He came in here all the time, you know.”
Joanna studied Butch’s face. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” she said. “Not until last night. Remember the first time I came in here asking about the night Serena Grijalva died? Why didn’t you tell me then that Dave Thompson was a regular?”
“I don’t recall your asking me that question straight out,” Butch returned easily. “Besides, if you had asked, I probably wouldn’t have told you. I don’t even tell wives and girlfriends who comes and goes around here. Why would I tell anyone else?”
“You don’t tell? Why not?”
Dixon smiled. “Client/counselor privilege.”
“You’re no lawyer, are you?”
Dixon shook his head.
“Since when do bartenders have the protection of client privilege?”
“You’re right,” he said. “It probably wouldn’t hold up in court, but I do try to protect the privacy of my clientele, for business reasons if nothing else. Dave was one of my broken birds. I was hoping that eventually he’d get his head screwed on straight. And he was working on it. That’s why this so-called suicide crap doesn’t wash. Ol’ Dave maybe imbibed a bit more than was good him...,’
“A bit?” Joanna questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Butch shrugged. “So okay, maybe a lot more than was good for him. It’s bad business for me to run down the drinking habits of some of my very best customers. It doesn’t pay. But still, mentally, I’d say Dave was in much better shape in the last few months than he was when he first started coming here. And if he drank too much, at least he was responsible about it. If he was planning to tie one on, he always had me keep his car keys. If I asked for them, he always handed them over without any argument. Whenever he ended up too smashed to drive, I’d keep his car here overnight and get someone else to drive him back home.”
