A black-and-white pulled in. Conor’s friend since high school, Officer Terry Moran, got out. “I got a report of a shooting. What the hell is going on?”

Conor’s heart recovered. “Thanks, man, but you missed all the action.” He gave Terry a rundown and a description of the teenagers. “Be great if you could find him. He’s my alibi.”

“About that.” Terry leaned closer. “Let me get this description out, call a crime scene tech to go over your apartment, and talk with those two. Then we need to talk.”

The plainclothes cops returned. “They’re gone.”

“Meet you inside.” Conor went in the back door. Customers gawked and gossiped at the police activity. Conor detoured to the bar. With shaky hands he grabbed the bottle of twelve-year-old Glenfiddich. For the first time ever, he broke his own rule about not drinking while working. Having a gun pointed in the dead center of his face justified the one-time exception.

“Oh my God. Are you all right?” Jaynie hugged him.

“You’re going to spill that.” Ernie took the bottle from Conor’s hand and poured him a short glass. “All this over a dog? It doesn’t make sense.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Conor sipped. The single malt heated his throat and cleared his sinus passages. As a side benny, it also wiped the nasty stench from his nostrils. “I have to go talk to Terry. I’ll fill you in when I’m done.”

Terry was waiting for him in the office. Conor closed the door. “Where are your pals?”

“Outside. I told them I’d get your statement. Since we know each other, I’ll stay away from any evidence. They’re calling Detective Jackson.”

“Oh goody. Hold on a second then.” Conor picked up his cell and called Damian, who promised to drive over. Conor set his phone down and gestured with his glass to Terry. “OK. Go.”

Terry pulled out a small notebook. “Let’s get your statement for tonight out of the way.”

Conor slid into his dad’s chair and gave him the details.

“I’ll write this up and bring a report by tomorrow for you to sign.” Terry closed his notebook. “I want you to look at mug shots too. Chances are these scumbags have been arrested before.”

“Great.” Conor took a long pull of scotch, letting the fiery liquid numb a path through his gut.

“Now about that missing girl.” Terry sat forward and leaned his forearms on his thighs.

Conor leaned forward and rubbed his forehead. “You know I didn’t have anything to do with the girl’s disappearance.”

“Damned straight, but what I know doesn’t mean squat. Detective Jackson is seriously jonesing for you on this case.” Terry rubbed both hands down his face. “I wish I knew why.”

“Me too.” Conor leaned back in the chair.