“I couldn’t help noticing your interest in our conversation.” I held up the mug shot. “Either of you know this girl?”

Both faces stayed pointed at their beers.

“See that gentleman over there? He’s a cop. An overachiever. Gets off on busting people. You know, just in case they might have done something wrong. Believes in preventive policing.”

Raisin Eyes swiveled on his stool, sending a tidal wave of body odor rolling my way. I waggled the printout. He made a show of studying the image.

“Word on the street is she might have worked out of here,” I said.

“Doing what, selling Popsicles? Chick looks like a fucking ice-cream truck.” Raisin Eyes laughed at his own joke. “What do you think, Harp?”

Harp sniggered. “Eskimo Pie all the way.”

“Do either of you recognize her?”

“I don’t recognize Popsicles. I suck ’em.” Oily grin. “How about you? You got a stick up your cheeks so’s I can get a good hold?”

Raisin Eyes never knew what hit him. Shooting past me, Ryan arm-wrapped the guy’s throat and hyper-rotated his elbow up and back in one lightning move. The more Raisin Eyes twisted, the more Ryan tightened the armlock.

Harp bolted for the door. Toffer started in our direction.

“Let’s not make any bad decisions here,” Ollie warned.

Toffer held position, fingers curled into fists at his sides. A few patrons headed for the exit. Others watched, pretending not to. Ollie joined us but did not intervene.

“You’re breaking my arm.” Raisin Eyes’s face was the color of claret.

“Apologize to the lady.”

“She’s the one—”

Ryan increased the pressure.

“Sonofabitch. Whatever.”

“I’m running out of patience.” Ryan’s tone was dangerous.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Ryan released his hold. Raisin Eyes flopped forward, left hand rubbing circles on his right shoulder.

“Name?” Ryan demanded.

“Who the fuck’s ask—”

“I am.” Forged steel.

“Shelby Hoch.”

“That’s a good start, Shelby.”

Ryan gestured for me to hold up the printout. I did. Ollie continued to watch in silence.

“Let’s start over,” Ryan said. “You know this lady?”

“I seen her around.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Where?”

Hoch hooked a thumb at the red-bustier waitress.

“Leaving a motel with shit-for-brains.”

WE TURNED AS ONE.

The waitress was staring at us from among the tables, face white, lips geranium-red. Like many large animals, she could move fast when frightened. Slamming down her tray, she bolted for a door to the right of the bar.

Ollie, Ryan, and I shot after her.

The door opened onto an alley. When I came through it, the woman was doubled over and gasping from her short sprint, and bad cop/good cop roles had already been chosen. Ollie held one plump arm. Ryan had a reassuring palm on her back.

Rain was falling in earnest now, drumming the Dumpsters and the cases of empty beer bottles stacked beside them. A soggy plastic bag was moving with the wind against the back of the building, puffing up then flattening against the wet brick.