Then came Quinn’s news: the FBI was investigating Benjamin Moreland but not considering him a viable suspect. What did interest them was the killer’s possible link to Moreland—how he’d gotten that hair.

After we discussed that, we moved on to our own investigation. Jack had me tell Quinn and Felix our progress to date.

“Not great,” I said. “So far, they all feel like dead-ends.”

“Shit,” Quinn said. “At least you’ve got something to look into. With the Moreland lead gone, so’s our investigation. How about we take some of yours?”

Jack shrugged. “Suppose so. Vigilantism. You want that?”

Quinn’s lips tightened, but Jack only sipped his coffee.

“We’ll take it,” Felix said. “I’ll also see what I can do to verify Baron’s death. Damned shame, that. He was a good man once.”

Jack nodded.

Since we were back to wearing our biker-duo outfits, Jack must have thought we needed to get in the right mind-set. After only an hour on the road, he stopped at the kind of place that gives the word “dive” a bad name. It wasn’t even noon, and there was already someone lying on the floor. Probably passed out drunk, but in this place you could keel over dead and not be noticed until the flies started feasting.

There were a half-dozen men in the diner/bar, but only one even looked our way, and just to ogle me as we passed. At a sharp look from Jack, the man returned to staring at the empty chair across the table, and lifted his coffee mug, taking so deep a swig I suspected it wasn’t filled with java, which would explain why I couldn’t smell fresh brewed coffee despite the mugs at every man’s table. For that matter, I couldn’t smell much of anything, just a faint whiff of mildew, as if the customers—even more disheveled and shabby than the tavern—were too well pickled to give off any odor.

Without so much as a glance around, Jack navigated to the darkened back hall.

“You’ve been here before, I take it,” I whispered. “Please tell me it was on business.”

“Yeah. Order a burger for a mark? Chef does your job for you.”

The hall was nearly pitch-black. An exit sign at the end gave off the only light. After my eyes adjusted, I could see a chain on the rear door. The management must have been more worried about customers escaping without paying than escaping a fire. Although, from what I’d seen, I doubted they’d go anywhere even if the chairs under them were ablaze.