"I think he's in Vegas on his honeymoon."

"His honeymoon? I thought the two of them broke up."

"This is someone new, a gal he met in here five or six weeks ago."

"You're kidding."

"Afraid not. Anyway, forget him. He's not your type anyway."

"I don't have a type. Of course, I don't have a boyfriend either, but that's beside the point."

"Have a popper."

"Thanks." I took one and bit into it, experiencing the spurt of melted cheese before the heat of the jalapeno set my tongue aflame. The jukebox came to life, and I peered over my shoulder as the strains of a country-western melody line-danced its way across the room. The Wurlitzer was ancient, a chunky, round-bodied contraption with a revolving rainbow of hues, bubbles licking up along its seams.

I turned my attention back to Dolan, trying to figure out how much he'd had to drink. He wasn't slurring his words, but I suspected he was so conditioned by his own alcoholic intake that he'd show no signs of drunkenness even if he fell off his stool. I wasn't sure if he'd been drinking continuously since lunchtime or had gone home for a nap between cocktails. A glance at the clock showed it was only 7:35, but he might have been sitting there since 4:00 P.M. I didn't look forward to working with the man if he was going to be pie-eyed from day to day. His constant smoking didn't appeal to me, either, but there was nothing I could do about it so the less said the better. "How's Stacey doing? Have you talked to him yet?"

"I called him at six and said we'd stop by to see him. Guy's sick of being poked and prodded, really wants out of there. I guess they'll release him tomorrow once the test results are back."

"Did you tell him your idea?"

"Briefly. I said we'd fill him in when we got there. What'd you think about the case?"

"I really love all that stuff. I usually don't have the chance to see police reports up close."

"Procedure hasn't changed that much the past twenty years. We're better at it now – more thorough and systematic, plus we got new technology on our side."

The bartender ambled our way. "What can I get for you?"

"I'm fine," I said.

Dolan lifted his whiskey glass, signaling for a refill.

"Aren't we on our way to see Stacey?"

"Right now?"

"Well, there's no point in getting into this if he's not going to agree."

I could see Dolan debate his desire for the next drink versus his concern for his friend. He pushed his glass back, reached for his wallet, and pulled out a handful of bills, which he tossed on the bar. "Catch you later."

I grabbed my bag and followed him as he headed for the door. "We'll take my car," he said.