Lakshmi pointed to a raised platform at the far end. “The karaoke scene is big here. Not as big as Bear’s Place, but—” Her eyes caught on a table. “Bugger.”

“What’s going on? An ex or something?” Caitlin saw four guys with two pitchers, four cups, and a board game.

Lakshmi whipped her head back toward the beer taps. “I don’t know why he’s here. I didn’t even know he was in town.”

“Who?”

“It’s David Amireau and some of his old frat brothers. I have to leave.”

“Because you’re afraid?”

“Because of the restraining order. I have to stay one hundred yards away, so I have to go right now.”

“Interesting.” Caitlin pushed away from the bar. “You can tell me all about that on our way home.”

“No. You stay. Watch him.”

“Why?”

Lakshmi walked toward the door. “You’ll see. Text me later.”

Caitlin watched her go. Amireau had a restraining order against her, not the other way around. Weird that neither Lakshmi nor the BPD had mentioned that tidbit.

She ordered a beer and then took her drink to a table ten feet from Amireau and company. David Amireau had grown a dark, thick beard, the kind the Special Forces guys wore in Afghanistan. Otherwise, Caitlin didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The narrow bridge between his eyes read “dickhead,” and the contrast between his pasty skin and full eyebrows didn’t help, but Angela Chapman had called Amireau her friend. She’d texted him, not Michelson, on a regular basis. The guys with him looked sincere enough, laughing when he joked, and bumping fists when points were scored in their game.

Caitlin nursed her beer for fifteen minutes, then walked to the bar for another.

The first group of women appeared before she got back to her seat. College-aged, maybe six, gathered near the doorway. Five minutes later, they numbered fifteen, all shapes, sizes, and races. Five minutes after that, easily two dozen.

Caitlin heard one of the girls say, “Now.”

A chant echoed in the patio. “Murderer, murderer.”

They started walking. Amireau didn’t notice until one of his friends tapped him. The women continued, growing louder. By twenty feet away, they were yelling.

“Murderer, murderer!”

Amireau’s friend yelled back. “Dave didn’t do anything.”

Another of his boys called to the bartender. “Get security in here.”

The mob walled in the foursome. Several men in security T-shirts worked their way in, forming a path Amireau could take through the fe-maelstrom, his hands covering his face to keep from being photographed by multiple camera phones. The mob followed him out into the main bar, still chanting. Caitlin went too.

She saw heads turn with recognition and whispers, heard someone behind the bar say, “Hey, it’s the guy that killed Angela Chapman.”