Cap ran a beefy hand along his chin scruff, the bristling sound of it loudly audible on my side of the messy counter. His hands were deeply calloused and they looked like they’d been that way for half his life. “You don’t look like a peeper, but you sure talk like one. Trolling for dirt right under the cops’ noses, huh?”

I took a moment. “Trolling for dirt” kind of chafed, but I’d get nowhere antagonizing the man. “You knew Mr. Ayers. You know this place. You must know something the cops don’t.”

Cap rolled his eyes. “Mr. Ayers? Well, fa-la-la. All I know is Mr. High and Mighty Ayers was a real piece of work.”

I ignored the mocking tone. It was obvious there was no love lost between the two men. Jung had said as much; something to do with Tim’s partying causing a problem for his neighbors. Cap didn’t look too broken up over Tim’s passing. In fact, the contrary appeared to be true. He seemed almost giddy that Tim was gone and out of his hair. I’d never understand why some people could get turned on by violent death, and approach it in a party mood, as though it were a sideshow attraction they’d paid good money to see. Maybe it was just that they hadn’t seen enough of it, or seen it at its worst. I had. I’d seen more than enough.

“I heard he wasn’t very popular.”

Cap stared, nodded slightly. “Oh? Who’d you get that from?”

I didn’t answer.

“Right, you’re not at liberty to say. Got it.”

I studied him for a time, hoping to find a glimmer of feeling, but found nothing remotely like it. The eyes, the color of cold black coffee, stared back at me, without a single spark of empathy in them, as if we were discussing something trivial and not the tragic death of a young man.

“Ayers is dead,” I said. “I’d think you’d be interested in knowing how and why.”

“Know how. Cops say he got hammered and slipped clear off his own deck. Why?” He shrugged. “Makes no difference. Dead’s dead.”

“Were you here the night he died? Maybe you saw something odd, something that stands out?”

Cap watched me with keen interest, his eyes all but dancing. He was enjoying himself quite a lot. “Look, I told the cops all that already. Telling you, well, that’s something different.”

He rocked back on his heels, his grin mischievous, roguish. He then quietly moved down the counter to grab the tip jar and walk it back. He placed it between us, turning the jar so I could read the sign on it, nudging it closer to me. I didn’t have to be a genius to see how this was going to go.