I said, “The bartender from the Fauborg Hotel. For thirty-three years, as it turns out. All those people who serve us, we never take the time to learn much about them. But I learned a lot about Gustave. He’s eighty-four, happy to be retired. And sharp, mentally. He never learned your name. Or Mark’s. Because you always took a booth, never sat at the bar. But he sure recalled your faces. And your drinks. Sapphire Martini for you, straight up, olives plus onions. Onions without olives would’ve made it a Gibson, but you wanted both. You drank an identical cocktail in Death Is My Shadow, guess it’s been your favorite for a while. I have to tell you, Gustave didn’t approve, said if someone wanted salad, they should order salad. He developed his own private name for it: Gibsini. He laughs when he says it. And that’s how he filed you away. The Lady Who Likes Gibsinis. Mark went for eighteen-year-old Macallan, which is a commonplace order, so Gustave filed him as The Man with the Lady Who Likes Gibsinis. Then there was a third party who started showing up with the two of you, a couple of years ago. Blond, lovely, young—so young Gustave first figured she was your and Mark’s granddaughter. He filed her as The Girl Who Likes Rum and Coke. With one exception. The last night of her life. That night she ordered a—you guessed it—a Gibsini.”

Her cheek twitched again. She turned to block it from view. Didn’t see me nudge the laptop.

“Here’s the thing about bartenders,” I said. “Even when they seem not to be paying attention, they often are. And they notice all kinds of things. What Gustave started to notice was that Little Miss Rum and Coke always sat between you and Mark and that the second time she joined you, when Mark thought no one was looking, he slipped his hand between her legs. Kept it there. And the strange thing was, Rum and Coke endured it as the conversation continued. Gustave, being an upright type of fellow, was immensely offended but he’d seen all kinds of things that offended him, had remained steadily employed by keeping his mouth shut. His tolerance was strained even further when at the end of that evening, Mark moved his hand and yours took its place. And that’s the way it tended to go when the three of you showed up on Sunday night at the Fauborg and retired to that nice corner booth. Mark’s hand, your hand, Mark’s hand, your hand. You were out of view from the other patrons but Gustave had a nice clear view. ‘Now I got it,’ he told me. ‘These are perverts, I wanted to spit in their drinks.’ ”

She gave a start.