Doyle asked a few questions, and I focused my attention on him, leaning his way, making plenty of eye contact. This was the guy I wanted to talk to. Part of that had to do with the wedding ring on his finger—an easy excuse if he expected more than a friendly chat. And part of it was that if I had no other agenda in mind, this would be my choice, not a blowhard like Waters who probably wore his gun to bed, or a cop like Cox who’d surrendered to the bottle. I wanted the one who still cared enough to lose sleep over his cases.

After a few minutes, Waters seemed to notice the way the tide was turning. He play-punched Doyle’s arm.

“We’ll be at the bar,” he said, and jerked his head at Cox.

Doyle watched them go, then looked back at me. Uncertain, but not uninterested, as if it had been a long time since he’d been left alone with a woman in a bar, and he didn’t quite remember what to do next. Before I could say something, he grabbed my empty glass.

“Can I get you a refill?”

I nodded. “Miller, thanks.”

“Lite?”

“Never.”

He smiled, the worry lines around his eyes fading. When he returned, he’d recovered his nerve. We chatted for a while and, without any prodding, talk turned to the biggest news in town.

“When the uniforms called it in, the last thing I was thinking was that it was this Helter Skelter killer. I knew Kozlov. He killed that boy just after I transferred to this force.” Doyle looked at me. “You hear about that?”

“No. What happened?”

“Up in Cleveland. Kozlov held up a liquor store. Kid behind the counter grabbed a baseball bat. Kozlov slashed him up with a broken bottle and left him to bleed to death.” Doyle shook his head. “Kid was in his last year of college, working to pay for his tuition. Over a thousand people at his funeral. Dozens of classmates, all crying their eyes out. Only people showed up at Kozlov’s funeral had cameras.”

“And who’s the one people are going to remember?”

Doyle met my eyes, nodded. “Exactly. No fucking justice.”

“At least he didn’t die in his bed. There’s some justice in that.”

“Yeah.” Doyle sipped his beer. “When the call came in, saying he’d been shot, I thought ‘Sure, what do you expect?’ Guy like that bought himself a .22 to the temple years ago.”

“A .22? I read it was a .38…or did you just mean, hypothetically…”

“Nah, it was a .22. Reporters fucked up a few things on this one. First guy on the scene was from the local paper—just a kid. He scooped it, and a bunch of stringers followed his facts. I think some later reports got it right…but yeah, it was a .22. Hitman’s special.”