It turned out the answer was pretty damned well…and yet not quite well enough.
After the second double shot, Bronze was obviously relaxing a lot; he was joking with the waiter and bartender, and generally seemed less attentive than he had when he entered.
“Which seems stupid,” Weaver noted. “You’d think he’d be keeping a watch out, especially right now.”
“It speaks to two things,” Ashton decided. “One, he thinks he can’t be touched. Two, he knows the staff, and they’re standing guard for him. Watch your backs, guys.”
“Roger,” both men responded.
After the third double, however, Bronze was starting to appear mildly inebriated. The fact that he was still noshing – nachos had arrived after the fish and chips – and had taken over three hours to consume all of it, while chatting up the bartender, explained why he was only mildly intoxicated. The fact that he had practically knocked back the second double, then promptly ordered the third, explained why he was intoxicated at all.
“This could take a while,” Ames decided, when Bronze ordered fried cheese.
“Why the hell is he not the size of a hippopotamus?” Weaver wondered.
“This may be the private celebration of a successful hit,” Compton decided. “I bet he works out most days, by the look of him.”
“But it’s been days since the assassination of Medved,” Ames protested. “Going on a week.”
“And apparently nobody after him,” Ashton pointed out. “So he figures he’s clean.”
“Maybe it’s time we paid the tab and got out of here, Nick,” Compton said. “The waiter’s come by again to see if we wanted something else.”
“All right, pay the tab and head out. Is Bronze sloshed enough that he wouldn’t recognize me in my disguise, do you think?”
“Does he have reason to recognize you?” Weaver wondered.
“Not really. We’ve never met. But I was thinking, if the IPD put out word they’re looking for me, he might recognize my ID photo or something. Hell, I might be on his hit list, for all I know, and he just hasn’t gotten around to me yet.”
“If you sit in a booth on the far side of the room, you’re probably good,” Compton said. “Maybe with Cally in there with you, and you two pretend to make out?”
“That might work,” Ashton decided. “Cal?”
“Works for me, Nick. Why can’t we really make – never mind. We need to watch.”
Weaver and Compton stifled laughs in VR.
Compton took the kitchen entrance and Weaver watched the bar’s façade while Nick and Cally entered the establishment and seated themselves in a booth as far from Bronze as they could legitimately get, while looking like a couple who wanted some privacy. Nick took the seat facing the front door, and Cally sat facing the bar at the back of the pub, where Bronze sat at the nearby table.
“What can I get for you two?” another waiter asked the pair, as they perused the menu.
“I think the lady and I would like to share an order of Scotch eggs,” Nick said, “and I’ll have a shot of Jamesons, on the rocks.”
“I’d like a Riesling spritzer, please,” Cally decided.
“Right away. Are you planning on a meal here, or is this on the way to another event?”
“On the way to another event. We’re early for that event – we have tickets to a show, and dinner after with friends – so we thought we’d blow off some time here,” Nick said with a smile. “Never mind tide us over until after the show. It’s on the way, we’ve heard good things about it, so we stopped in.”
“Excellent, then. If you need refills, or additional snacks to nibble, do call me, and your food and drinks will be up in just a few minutes.”
Compton had only been in position in the back alley for about ten minutes when an Imperial Police officer showed up, brandishing a bobby stick.
“Gonna have to ask you to leave, buddy,” he told Compton, stern and almost truculent, as if he wanted Compton to talk back, so he could get more physical. “Got a report ‘bout you hangin’ out back here from one o’ the apartments across the way. We can’t have people causing problems.”
“I’m afraid you have a case of mistaken identity, officer,” Compton said, extracting his badge at the same time he pushed his identification through VR. “I’m an investigator with ICPD; we had a rape in this alley about a week ago, and I’m here looking for clues as to the identity and whereabouts of the rapist.”
“Aha,” the IPD officer said, studying Compton’s bona fides in VR. “You wouldn’t happen to know a guy name of Ashton, would you? Might be in your same department…”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Compton lied smoothly. “I’ve never known anyone with that name. There’s certainly nobody in my division named Ashton. I guess he might be in some other division…” He shrugged, seeming uncaring.
“Huh. Well, maybe he’s free-lancin’ then. Might even be set up as a private dick or somethin’. If you see him, give us a call, okay? He’s not what he’s cracked up to be, and we got a warrant out on ‘im.”
“Sure thing,” Compton lied once more.
“Okay, yell if you need help with anything. Good luck finding the rapist.”
“Will do.”
And the Imperial Police officer headed back out to the street.
“Nick, you busy?” Compton asked on the VR.
Ashton looked up from where he and Ames shared a whole Scotch egg – a savory dish consisting of an entire hard-boiled egg wrapped in bulk sausage, lightly breaded with crumbs, then fried until the sausage was cooked – and verified that there was nothing of interest going on in the pub. Bronze was still drinking, the bartender was prepping for the after-work happy hour, and the waiters were bussing and cleaning tables. A couple of other tables
