Six booths line the left side of the car. The benches are the requisite red vinyl; the tabletops are Formica, with chrome strips on the sides. The bar itself looks like a ramp that was once used to schlep goods onto railway cars. It’s a massive slab of scuffed wood and runs the length of the car. The lower part of the bar, where red and chrome stools are lined up like colorful mushrooms, is covered with gum—the chewed variety—and I realize that at some point over the decades, it became a weird kind of tradition for patrons to stick their gum to the wood.

It’s after midnight and the place is deserted. We find a booth at the rear and order coffee. The bartender is a large bald man with arms the size of tree trunks. He has a spiked dog collar around his neck, and there’s a tattoo of a pit bull on his right bicep. But he’s fast and friendly, and within a couple of minutes he delivers two steaming mugs.

Tomasetti smiles as he picks up his cup. “You think there’s a matching leash?”

“I’m betting his wife keeps it in the night table next to the bed.”

“There’s a thought I don’t want in my head.” He tips the mug. “Here’s to interesting characters.”

“There are plenty of us to go around.”

We sip coffee, comfortable with the silence. The last hours have been intense, and we both know it will take some time to decompress.

“You haven’t talked about what happened in the tunnel,” Tomasetti says after a moment.

The truth of the matter is, I haven’t had a chance to think about the time I spent underground with Perry Mast. Now that the adrenaline is flagging and exhaustion is setting in, I realize those minutes were probably some of the most terrifying of my life.

“The worst part was having to leave those girls behind,” I tell him. “They were terrified I wouldn’t come back for them.”

“I guess they don’t know you as well as I do. Remind me to give you shit later about risking your neck, will you?” But there’s no rancor in his voice.

“Bad habit of mine.” The smile feels phony on my lips, but I don’t bother trying to disguise it. Maybe because I’m tired. Maybe because I trust him, even with the part of me that isn’t always on the up-and-up.

I think about the case and all the strange places it has taken us. I think of the body I found in the tunnel, and I wonder if the parents know of their dead child yet. I wonder if the news will give them comfort or closure, or if the not knowing was better because they still had hope.

“Did the coroner have any idea how long that girl had been dead?” I ask.