What greeted them was a stench of such complexity and depth as to be symphonic in scope. In an almost dizzying combination, there were odors representing everything from stale beer, old sweat, cheap perfume, cigarettes, and even urine, to name a sampling.

“Far out,” Lester murmured, his head almost light.

Sam appeared to take no notice.

The place had no windows, as expected, but its darkness approached black hole status in the far corners. One dim and distant light in this odorous fog barely revealed what looked like a ghostly painting of a distant bar with a dance floor beyond, floating against an all-absorbing black velvet background.

“We’re not open,” came a voice in response to the door slamming shut.

“Police,” Sam announced clearly, although there was no one to be seen.

At that, a shadow dressed in black jeans and T-shirt loomed vaguely into view, belonging to a paunchy man in a beard carrying a dish towel in his hand.

“I don’t care,” he said. “We’re closed. Come back in six hours.”

The man drew near, spread out his arms, and placed his free hand on Sam’s upper arm. “Sorry. You have to leave.”

Sam stiffened. Without saying a word, she went from staring at him to looking at his hand, still touching her arm. Lester stepped to one side and positioned himself to react.

The man, suddenly aware of his trespass, seemed equally unsure about what to do next.

Sam asked in a frighteningly calm voice, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

The hand vanished as if singed. “Sorry,” he said. “Habit. I wasn’t thinking.”

Lester moved things along, in part to head off a possible pistol-whipping. “We’re officers assigned to a federal task force. Spinney and Martens. What’s your name, sir?”

“Federal…?” their host stammered. “Reynolds. Al Reynolds. I’m the manager. Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

Sam was still glaring at him.

“We’re hoping you can help us with something,” Lester went on. “It happened about a week ago?”

Reynolds stepped back, deflated by Sam’s heat. He bowed slightly. “Sure. Whatever. I mean, I’ll try.”

“You got an office?” Lester asked.

That brought a bemused look. “I got a closet with a safe in it and boxes of napkins and swizzle sticks. I usually do business at the bar. That okay?”

“Lead the way.”

The lighted oasis grew in size as they wended their way through a shoal of scattered tables and chairs. Once there, Reynolds found his safety berth behind the bar, an arm’s length from Sam, while the two cops perched themselves on stools. Sam wiped hers first with a paper napkin.

“Mr. Reynolds,” she said at last.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She didn’t bother correcting him. “Are you here during operating hours?”

“Yes. Every night and most days. We keep staff to a minimum, so I’m here all the time. What’s the problem?”

“We’ll get to that.” She opened her iPhone to the photos app. While she was pulling up a shot of Lemuel Shaw, Lester asked, “Then, you were here a week ago when a man complained that his car was stolen?”