“Could be better, could be worse.” Cody clasped the proffered hand. “Hey, Big B. You mind looking at a few photos for us?”

“Sure, man.” Brent nodded amiably. “C’mon in. You want to smoke a bowl?” He glanced at Cody’s uniform. “Um . . . just kidding. Maybe crack open a cold one?” He noticed me. “Oh, hey! Hi, there, Pixy Stix.” He gave his belly another scratch, peering down at me. “You want to party?”

Oh, blech. My tail lashed.

For the first time since I’d inadvertently evoked the memory of his murdered girlfriend, Cody’s lips curved with amusement. “Sorry, Big B. Maybe another time. Pixy Stix and I are on duty. You were working happy hour at the Shoals last night?”

“Yeah.” Big B looked bewildered. “So?”

Cody slid the three photos out of the folder. “These guys come in?”

He studied them. “Nah.”

“Are you sure?”

“This is about the drowned kid, isn’t it?” Brent’s gaze sharpened. “No, man. I heard about it this morning.” He stabbed the uppermost photo with one thick forefinger. “I always keep an eye on those frat-boy types. More often than not, they’re mouthy shits who end up starting trouble they can’t even begin to finish. None of them in the bar last night, not at happy hour.”

“You’re sure?” Cody pressed him.

The beard wagged up and down. “Uh-huh. Abso-fucking-lutely, bro.”

Another handclasp ensued. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to doubt you.”

Brent Timmons enfolded Cody in a major bear hug. “No worries, amigo. Don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t.”

We got back into the patrol car. Cody reported in to the dispatcher on duty, then checked his watch. “We’ve got time to kill before hitting the bars on the list again.”

“You don’t believe Brent?” I asked.

“I do, but I’d like to get as much confirmation as possible.” He rubbed his chin. “And I’d like to show those photos around at the Wheelhouse. There’s got to be a reason the kid had that matchbook in his pocket.”

I shivered a little. “You know it’s a major ghoul hangout?”

Cody shot me an amused look. “Some big, bad hell-spawn you are. Got anything else on your agenda?”

“Maybe,” I said. “My mom offered to read the cards for me. We’re going right past her place.”

His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. “Tarot cards?”

“Ah . . . not exactly,” I admitted. “But she’s got this knack. Mrs. Browne says it’s not uncommon for humans with an affinity for the arcane to come from a long line of psychics and seers.”

In most places, this would not be a logical course of investigation, but this was Pemkowet. Cody shrugged. “It can’t hurt.”