“Got it. I have to go.” She hung up.
The Rabbit Hole looked like a dive from the outside-a narrow corner entrance, no windows, and a plain wooden sign with a white rabbit painted on it nailed above the door.
As they watched from across the street, two old, slow-moving men-one large, one small-approached the door. They stood there after trying the door and finding it locked.
A minute or so later, a slender, fit man in his forties-judging by the graying hair-came out of an opening that Mitch hadn’t noticed. He glanced up and saw that there were windows above the bar. An upstairs apartment? Likely.
The man smiled at his patrons and opened the door. They entered together and the door closed.
“Ready?” Steve asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
When they entered the bar Mitch expected a stench of stale beer and burned popcorn. Instead, the ventilation was surprisingly good and the bar smelled fresh and clean. A jukebox stood prominently next to the bar, but no music played. Probably too much external stimulation for the morning drinkers.
A smattering of cocktail tables with two or three chairs each were grouped to one side; a small, worn wood dance floor was on the other. The bar itself was old but polished, with a full-length antique bar mirror mounted behind. The two old men sat on stools next to each other, their eyes following Mitch and Steve in the mirror.
The bartender was going about morning duties-checking stock, filling the cooler with ice from a machine Mitch couldn’t see but heard churning around the corner, on the other side of a neon sign that proclaimed RESTROOMS.
They’d decided on the direct approach. Steve flashed his badge at the bartender and said, “Special Agent Steve Donovan, Federal Bureau of Investigation. My partner, Special Agent Mitch Bianchi. We’re investigating the car that went into the river about two miles up the road. Did you hear about that on the news?”
The bartender walked over to them, leaned against the back bar. “The news? Sure. Heard about it from everyone who came in here the last couple of days. Your people were all over the river, hard to miss what happened.”
“And your name?”
“Tip Barney.”
“This your place?”
“Yep.”
Mitch didn’t reveal that he already had that information and held up a recent picture of Oliver Maddox. “Do you recognize this man?”
Barney took a good look. Shook his head. “Not familiar. He the one who went under?” Barney glared at them. “It wasn’t a drunk driving thing, was it? I don’t let anyone leave here with his keys if he’s drunk.”
“That’s right,” one of the two early morning regulars at the bar piped up. “That’s why I walk here.”
“You only live two blocks away. You need the exercise,” Barney responded.
“We have no evidence that it was a drunk driving accident,” Steve said. “We believe Mr. Maddox was on his way to meet someone here on Sunday, January 20.”
“January? That was awhile back,” Barney said.
Mitch had been watching the bartender closely while Steve asked the questions. When Steve mentioned Maddox’s name, Barney tensed. It was a minor physical reaction, unconscious for the most part. His face didn’t change, but his neck muscles tightened, and he straightened just a fraction.
“Mr. Maddox has been in the river since,” Mitch said.
“I have no objection if you want to flash the picture around, or leave it with me.”
“We know that Mr. Maddox was here that Sunday night near closing. He was likely meeting with someone.”
“I’m really sorry. I wish I could help, but I just don’t remember. Except for a gal who comes in to help me on the weekends, I’m the only one here. Most everyone are locals, but we get a good tourist crowd on the weekends and summertime. People coming in for a beer after a long day on the river.”
“In January? When it’s raining?”
“The fish bite in the rain,” one of the drunks said.
Mitch was on the verge of losing his temper. Something was odd here, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He pulled out his ace and hoped he wasn’t playing his hand too soon.
“Mr. Maddox was looking into the death of one of your former employees,” he said to Barney. “Frank Lowe.”
Barney glanced at Steve, then at the bar. He crossed his arms. “I told the police everything fifteen years ago, and the arson investigator, and the insurance company. They said I had nothing to do with the fire. Hell, it may not have even been arson! The owner of the building put in substandard wiring, that could have done it. Probably was the cause.”
“I didn’t say we were looking into the cause of the fire,” Mitch said. Barney was talking too fast. Something was definitely odd. “Did Maddox talk to you about Lowe?”
“No. If he did, I don’t remember. That was months ago. I don’t even remember the kid coming in here.”
This was going nowhere. Mitch left a copy of Maddox’s picture. “I’d like a list of your regulars.”
Barney laughed. “Just about everyone in town. I’m the only bar.”
The small drunk piped up. “Lora. She’s here every night, till closing.” He winked at Barney. “I think she has a thing for you, Tip.”
Tip turned red. Mitch had never seen a man blush before.
“Don’t go bothering Lora,” he said.
Steve approached the men at the end of the bar, notepad in hand. “Lora?”
“Lora Lane. Nice name, eh? Lora Lane. Yep. She’s the daughter of the chief of police. A bit slow, but sweet as all get-out. Sits at the bar every night nursing her rum and Diet Coke after getting off work from the tackle shop. Her daddy owns that, too.”
“Does she live around here?”
“Course. With her mom and dad. In that big yellow Victorian on the corner of C and 4th. Can’t miss it.”
Claire spotted the Fed before she left the house with the dogs for her morning walk. She’d suspected that Agent Donovan would have someone sit on her after last night. Her dad was lucky that the Feds were slow to react. He might have been caught last night, and then there’d be no reason for the prison authority to give him the surgery he needed.
He was a walking dead man either way.
She confirmed the Fed-a female-when she went out with Chewy and Yoda. While sipping her coffee coming back from Starbucks, she knew that no matter what she did, the FBI would follow.
Screw that. She wasn’t going to lead them to her father. She considered driving up to Lake Tahoe just for the hell of it, make the Fed wonder what was going on. Might be fun. . but she had too much work to do. She had to track down Greg Abrahamson and find out about Frank Lowe’s arrest. And then there was Tip Barney down in Isleton. It wouldn’t hurt to have the Fed follow her around town, but it was the principle of the thing: She didn’t like being followed. Or manipulated. Or treated like a fragile little girl.
Her dad was turning himself in because he was dying. She needed to prove he was innocent before. . no. He wasn’t going to die. Nelia Kincaid, his attorney-or whatever she was-wasn’t going to let him surrender without an assurance that he’d be given the medical attention he needed.
With that belief firmly in place, Claire showered, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and threw on a loose-fitting blazer. She holstered her 9mm as well as her Taser, then strapped on her ankle gun, a Kahr P40, and picked up her house phone. Were they listening in? She put down her phone, pulled out her cell phone. The cell phone was owned by Rogan-Caruso. If it was tapped, they’d know. And if they knew and condoned it, then she was already up the creek. She hoped her employer would talk to her before cooperating with the FBI.
She called a local taxi service and sent a car to the corner of 40th and H Streets.
Claire went out the back door, hopped over two fences, and ended up on the street parallel to hers. She took the long way to the meeting place, making sure the Fed wasn’t driving up and down the streets looking for her. She had the car pegged-not what she thought of as a typical FBI sedan. A small, sporty black Honda. Must be the
