“I know that place,” I said. It was a crap bucket down the road from Tandy’s. A one-story motel. The kind of joint that put stickers on the front door reminding guests not to enter with guns.

“And?” I asked.

“Me and Abe spent Sunday there. Short guy’s name is Thiago Carilla.”

“You find a weapon in his place?” I asked. “He didn’t have a gun in the forest, or he would’ve shot back at the old guy.”

Which meant his weapon might’ve been left in his hotel room.

“Abe said the same thing,” my partner said. “But no. No weapon. We found six spools of Ace bandages. Vaseline. Two boxes of gauze.” Remy did an imitation of Abe. “‘Rem—it looks like a damn Eckerd’s exploded in here.’”

I grinned at this. “And you told him, ‘Eckerd’s stopped exploding ten years ago. Those are all called Rite Aid now.’”

“Pretty much,” she said. “But judging by the amount of blood loss this guy was dealing with, we’re thinking Carilla’s hand injury might’ve been a bullet wound, P.T. A graze.”

“Well.” I shrugged. “The M.E.’s got the body. What does Sarah say?”

“Inconclusive,” she said. “She did note a divot at the proximal end of the wound.”

“A divot?” I repeated. “Did it have a parallel mark next to it, right before the abrasion?”

“Exactly,” Remy said.

The M.E. before Sarah had once explained to me about the odd relationship between the yaw of a bullet as it caromed off human skin. Pressure waves were generated, and the skin buckled. It’s sort of like a plane’s nose, touching the ground and then bouncing off it. There’s a notch in the skin where the bullet first connects, then two parallel marks and a shallow abrasion that follows.

I sat back, thinking about how this might change our theory of the crime.

The two dead men in the car were killed execution style, and the truth was that we were still guessing as to how the short guy and the old guy were connected.

Remy’s drink came, and behind us the music changed to “Light My Fire” by the Doors. Ten minutes later, the sound of shuffleboard stopped, and so did the music.

“We’re closing up, hon,” the waitress said.

I dropped some cash onto the counter and pulled on my hoodie. The night air was brisk, and Remy and I left, walking out onto Pike.

As I headed out, I glanced back to confirm that the beer on the counter was still full. Not a touch gone.

We headed into the alley beside the bar, and I lit a Marlboro Red.

Remy confirmed that we were here to check out the liquor store across the way, but were waiting for the street to clear. The bar was the last place open on the street every night, which was why Remy asked to meet there.

“We also found a throwaway cell phone in the short guy’s hotel room,” Remy said.

“Anything good on it?”