For a pacifist who had never even been involved in a fistfight as far as Jessica knew, Tony had always been big on personal protection. Always insisted on having guns in the house. Once she was old enough, they’d often spend Sunday afternoons together at the shooting range on West Twentieth Street. Jessica, a beginner learning how to handle a firearm properly. Tony, brushing up on existing skills.

Some weekends, they would head out to a cabin in the woods in Upstate New York, plinking tin cans and hunting squirrels and rabbits.

“One day, you might have to shoot something bigger than a small animal,” Tony told her. “You might be the hunted instead of the hunter, and you’ll need to be prepared.”

The night before her first day working as a private investigator, Tony had presented Jessica with a box wrapped in pink tissue paper. Inside, nestled among more folds of tissue paper, like a new pair of shoes, was a Glock 17. It had served her well during her first couple of years on the job. These days, she preferred the more compact and discreet Glock 26. For Jessica, it was about protection, not confrontation. Even though she had drawn her weapon countless times, she’d still never shot anything bigger than a rabbit.

A couple of hours later, Jessica was back in Ace’s Bar armed with both the baby Glock and a Bud Light. She was in the same booth, which she was now starting to think of as her booth. She ordered a cheeseburger and fries and decided to stick with the beer and lay off the hard stuff after this morning’s hangover.

The bar was quiet. No Jack Holliday. No hat guy or any of his work friends. The old man was here again, occupying what she assumed was his usual booth and playing a game of solitaire. Ace Freeman was behind the bar. Jessica hadn’t spoken to him yet, other than to place the food order, but she was pretty sure he was Ace Freeman because he had the name Ace tattooed onto his right bicep above an inking of the playing card.

You didn’t need to be a private investigator to figure it out.

Jessica sat and watched him for a while as he worked, chopping lemons and limes for drink garnishes, wiping down the counter, refilling the refrigerator with beer and wine.

He had long hair tied back loosely in a ponytail that was too black and too shiny to be natural, especially considering his advanced years. Like the younger bartender, he was dressed casually in jeans and a band T-shirt, this one with Slayer across the chest and tour dates on the back. He was slim from behind, but a beer belly from the front betrayed his fondness for sampling his own products.