But it wouldn't be that way, anyway, she thought. If they were coming for her, they'd probably wait until they could get her on the sidewalk, alone, or at her home. They wouldn't walk into a bar and risk a Shootout in a place full of bystanders…
Rinker had a long couch at the end of the office, and she sometimes napped on it. Now she lay down, closed her eyes, and tried to work it out. She could only find one answer: that somebody had given her up. Somebody who knew where she lived. She'd told Carmel that she went to Wichita State, so Carmel knew where she lived, but not her name, or about the bar. But if Carmel had given her up, then they'd know almost everything, and they would have come in hard.
She had to call Carmel, she thought. But not from here…
And right now, maybe she'd walk out on the floor, talk to some people. If they were planning to jump her, she was dead meat anyway. And if they weren't, maybe she could learn something.
Rinker's bar had two major rooms, one for drinking and talking, and the second for drinking and dancing. The dance floor was polished maple, taken from a bankrupt karate studio, and probably the best dance floor in any bar in Wichita; all surrounded by deep-backed booths upholstered in naugahyde. When Davenport and his friends arrived, the band – live music on weekends – had been taking a break. They were setting up for their third and final set when Rinker cruised through.
She worked all the booths around the dance floor, talking with people she knew or had often seen in the bar, mostly under-40s white-collar; the band played soft rock and cross over country. She bought a beer for a guy who'd walked away from a car wreck earlier in the day, and for a couple who were out for the first time since a kid was born. She listened to a guy-walks-into-a-bar joke:
Guy walks into a bar, and the bartender says, 'Boy, I didn't expect to see you today, after last night – you were really bummed out'And the guy says, 'I was so bummed out that I went home and looked in my medicine cabinet. I had a big bottle of a thousand aspirins in there, and I decided to kill myself by taking them all at once.' The bartender says, 'So what happened?'And the guy says,
'Well, after the first two, I didn't feel so bad.'
She laughed and tracked Davenport between the heads of the dancers, who were just moving out on the dance floor again as the band cranked into a country dance piece. Davenport was in a front-room booth, facing her through the smoky atmosphere. He was paying no attention to her at all, or to anybody else in the bar, as far as she could tell. He was a good-looking guy, in a hard way, just starting to get a little grey around the temples. She drifted toward him.
Lucas was laying a very mild hustle on Malone, while Mallard tried to steer the conversation back to police work. Malone didn't want to know about police work, but when Lucas suggested that they dance, she said, 'I don't dance like that.'
'Is that a philosophical position?'
'I just don't dance to rock or country. I never learned. I can foxtrot; I can waltz. I can't do that kind of boppity… you know.'
'Too self-conscious,' Lucas said. He was about to go on when a woman stopped at the table and said, 'You all doing all right here?'
'All right,' Lucas said, looking up at her. She wasn't a waitress. 'Who're you?'
'I'm the owner, Clara. Making sure that everybody's being treated right.'
'Good bar,' Lucas said. 'You oughta open another one like it, up in
Minneapolis.'
'You're from Minneapolis?'
'I am,' Lucas said. 'These folks are from back east.'
'Glad to have you in Wichita/ Rinker said. She started to step away, but Malone, who'd perhaps had one more beer than she was accustomed to, said, 'Your band doesn't play waltzes, does it?'
Rinker grinned and said, 'Why, no, I don't believe they do, honey. You wanna waltz?'
'This guy's got the urge to dance,' Malone said, pointing at Lucas with her long-neck, 'And I can't dance to rock. Never learned.'
'Well, you oughta,' Rinker said. She looked quickly around the bar and then said to Lucas, 'I'm not doing anything at the minute, and I like dancing. You want to?'
They were dancing for five seconds and Lucas realized he was out of his depth.
'You're a dancer, a professional,' he said, and Rinker laughed and said, 'I used to be, kinda.'
'Well, slow down, you're making me look bad. And I'm a lot older than you are.'
'Ah, you dance fine,' Rinker said, 'For a Minneapolis white guy.'
Lucas laughed and turned her around; she was good-looking, he thought, one of those tough-cookie smart blondes who'd been around a bit, liked a good time, and could run a spreadsheet like an accountant. Maybe was an accountant.
'Are you an accountant?' he asked.
'An accountant?'They were shouting at each other over the music. 'Why would you think that?' 'I don't. Just making up a story in my head.' 'A story? You're not a reporter, are you?' 'Nah, I'm a cop. Just going through. I stopped to talk to some friends.'
'You don't look like a cop. You look like a… movie guy, or something.'
'Flattery will get you everywhere,' Lucas shouted back.
She laughed, and they danced.
But late that night, an hour after the bar closed, Rinker climbed in her car and headed for Kansas City. She would not break the routine: she would not make a business call from Wichita. She arrived in KC in the early morning hours, pulled into a convenience store and started dropping coins in a pay phone. When she had enough, she dialed Carmel; and Carmel, sleep in her voice, answered on the second ring. The cell phone, Rinker thought, must have been on the bed stand.
'We've got another problem,' Rinker said.
'What's that?'
'I just gaily danced the night away with your friend and mine.. .' She let it hang.
'Who?'
'Lucas Davenport. Right here in River City.'
'Goddamnit,' Carmel said. She ripped off a piece of thumbnail, snapped at it; she could hear her own teeth grinding in the telephone earpiece. 'He's working on some kind of information. I don't know enough about you or your friends to know where it might be coming from…'
'It's more complicated than that,' Rinker said. 'He had no idea who I was. He must be there for something – I mean, what are the chances of a coincidence?
Zero? Less than zero, I'd say…'
'So would I.'
'He had no idea who I was,' Rinker repeated. 'I was hoping you might get something from your sources in the police department.'
'Not much chance,' Carmel said. 'My guy thinks of himself as a kind of harmless leaker of information that's gonna get out anyway. He really wouldn't tell me anything that he thought might get somebody hurt…'
'So maybe we need to put some pressure on him.'
'Listen to this: he did tell me that they keep coming back to me. Even my source is getting a little strange with me. He thinks Davenport's got something, and I think it has to do with that kid.'
'Damnit. Even if the kid told him something… oh, shit.'
'What?'
'Just had a thought. If the kid for some reason got the tag number on that rental car… I told you that I use fake credit cards and IDs to rent them. I told you about that?'
'Yeah. You keep the cards good by using them…'
'I've paid them from Wichita. I've been careful, but I've gotten bank drafts here to pay those bills.'
'You think?'
'I don't see how the kid could have gotten the number. It was dark, and she was back inside when we left, and we were way down the block.'
'Maybe it wasn't the kid. Maybe… wasn't there a guy on a bike?'
