Too late to fix that now. She shruggedoff her jacket, at least, carrying it over the crook of her arm to try to makeherself look more casual. She pushed through the crowd of people coming andgoing, dancing and turning, trying not to let herself get distracted. Not bythe four beers going by on a tray. Not by the three inches of liquid left in abottle that someone swung perilously close to her as they danced. Not by thefifteen bodies she passed, each of them with their own unique measurements,their own number of straps and laces and buttons and stripes and dots and—
Zoe gasped for a breath, pushing thefinal distance to the bar by knocking someone else aside. They turned with anannoyed “Hey!” but backed off, something about Zoe’s appearance causing them toreconsider. She didn’t know whether they were scared because they knew she waslaw enforcement, or pitied her for the panic she was feeling. She didn’t knowif they could tell.
She rested her palm flat on the coolmarble surface of the bar, feeling it ground her. It was hot in here. Threedegrees more than comfortable, the combined temperature of all that body heatmaking it necessary to drink constantly to stay hydrated. No small irony thatmost chose alcoholic beverages, which would only speed the dehydration up.
“… set the bodies on fire.”
What was that? Zoe’s senses flared, hermind working fast to identify the source of what she had heard. A groupstanding behind her. She resisted the urge to turn and look at them, staringdown at her own hand on the bar as she tried to listen.
“Seriously? That’s messed up. Right inthe middle of the day?”
“Yeah. There’s been two of them already.I heard on the news before we came out, there might be another one.”
Zoe shook her head slightly, mentallydismissing them. They were talking about the killings, all right, but they weretalking about them as bystanders. Members of a worried community. They weren’tplanning an attack.
Although it would make sense that thekiller would try to initiate conversations about their own work, withoutletting on it was them. To enjoy the fame and notoriety they were receiving, tosee how others were reacting. Maybe looking for a bit of validation. She shouldcarry on listening, just in case.
“So sick. Better stay safe tonight. Wecan all get a cab together.”
“Yeah, dude. Especially the girls. Can’tlet them walk—”
“—get you something?”
Zoe looked up, realized that one of thebartenders was looking at her with an odd expression. Maybe he had alreadyspoken to her before, while she was off in her own world, listening. She wether lips, trying to tune back in on what he was saying.
“Sure,” she said, her eyes scanning overthe options on the shelf behind him. All alcoholic. That wouldn’t do. She wason duty. “… A sparkling water?”
The bartender raised an eyebrow, thenshrugged. “If that’s what you want.”
It was probably an odd request, for abar. At this time of night. Especially looking like she did. She had probablyjust marked herself out even more, a sore thumb that stuck out so loudlyeveryone would know.
The music changed, another pounding beatwith a different singer, and Zoe could no longer pick out the voices of the groupshe had been listening to. Just kids, really. She was on the wrong track there.If she was going to eavesdrop on everyone talking about the murders, it wouldbe a long night. Who wouldn’t be talking about something so shocking, and soclose to home?
The bartender put a glass of water downin front of her, five bubbles escaping and bursting on the surface layer as ithit the bar. Zoe thanked him and gave him her card, watching him take thepayment before handing it back.
The barman—that had been her firstthought. Standing here now, at the crowded bar full of people talking loudlyover the music, she couldn’t see another option. The tills were set down low,underneath an overhanging ledge. To look at something on the screen would beexceedingly obvious, and the cards and receipts were being passed back andforth so rapidly that no one would be able to simply observe them.
No, it had to be someone who workedbehind the bar. The more Zoe thought about it, the more it made sense. Abartender would see the card, and more than that. They might ask to check ID ifsomeone looked young. Someone like twenty-three-year-old Naomi Karling, whowould have been marked as a target immediately.
Zoe looked around again at the othercustomers along the bar. They were scantily clad as a rule, women in dressesand tight shirts, men in tank tops and muscle vests that allowed them to flexand show off. Skin everywhere. On some of those surfaces, ink climbed androlled with movement, flashes of illustrations and words that only reallystilled at the bar, where the dancers waited for refreshment.
While handing over her card, CallieEverard would have extended her arm. Shown the serial number printed there.Anyone could have seen it—read it in a second, done the math. Handed the cardback and marked her face.
Not only her, but John Dowling, too.That tiger on his left bicep would have been visible if he was dressed likemost of the people here. The stripes easy to count. Maybe even deliberatelyangled, a prized piece of art to be given as much exposure as possible.
And the bartender would have seenbirthdays. Oh, god, it was so simple. See the tattoo, count it up, know what itadded up to. Look at the credit card and make the same connection. Ask to seeID, even if you didn’t think you really needed to, because you wanted to seethe numbers written there. Find them. John’s birthday. Naomi’s age.
It all added up.
Their killer, the one with the obsessionwith the number twenty-three, was a bartender.
They had to be.
Zoe looked ahead and studied
