A cheer erupted at the far end of the bar. A half-dozen college-age hockey fans circled around a table, all dressed in Flyers jerseys. They’d painted their faces with orange and black stripes in support of their team. Conor didn’t recognize any of them, and unlike the usual Sullivan’s crowd, these boys had been overt about flashing their cash since they came in an hour ago. One raised his hand and snapped his fingers for the waitress. The sound didn’t carry over the din, but the superior attitude came across crystal clear. An aura of privileged aggression hovered around the group. While Conor appreciated the dollars in the drawer, this bunch set off his well-developed troublemaker radar.

Conor lifted the hinged partition and moved behind the bar. Tilting a glass under the tap, he tested the flow of ale.

The part-time bartender, Ernie, was at the register, ringing up a customer.

“Is Terry still here?” Conor asked. His old friend, now a beat cop, had been nursing an off-duty beer when Conor went downstairs.

“He just left,” Ernie said.

“Figures.” Just a ten-minute walk from the Sports Complex, Sullivan’s was a postgame stop-off for fans either commiserating a loss or celebrating a win. He nodded toward the college crowd. “Are they behaving?”

“So far.” The lighted Heineken sign reflected off Ernie’s bald dome. At seventy, Ernie had been supplementing his social security a couple of nights a week at Sullivan’s for years. “But while you were in the basement, they downed another pitcher of beer and a round of Jägermeister shots.”

Ernie wiped a condensation ring from the worn-smooth wood.

“Hopefully they’re barhopping, and they’ll move on soon.” Conor checked the head on the ale. Perfect. He poured the test beer in the sink. “If not, we’ll cut them off.”

“Hey, get back over here.” The voice was irritated, male, and drunk.

“I said no, Heath.” The lone girl in the bunch, a slim brunette in painted-on jeans, squirmed her way off a drunken college boy’s lap. Her ponytail and the scattering of freckles across her nose made her look painfully young.

“Don’t be a tease.” Drunk Boy grabbed her with both hands by the waist and tugged her back. With short, dark hair and blue eyes set too close together, his face was predatory, hawkish.

“Stop it.” She spun and swatted at his chest.

“Crap.” Conor set the empty glass down and headed toward the ruckus.

“And here we go,” Ernie muttered.

Conor waded into the spat. “Is there a problem?”

“Yeah.” Drunk Boy’s face reddened. “You butting into my personal business. That’s the problem.”

If the kid had been a regular, he would have backed off at Conor’s glare. But he was full of belligerence, beer, and himself—the trifecta of stupidity.

Conor gave diplomacy a try anyway. “The lady would like you to let go of her.”