As she waited to order her drink, it occurred to her she’d spent every night in the place since her arrival in Eagle Rock. If she didn’t clear the case soon, she’d be in danger of ending up with a drinking problem. A bit like Mack McCool, who seemed to be as much of a permanent fixture in Ace’s as the pool table and the ripped leatherette seats. He occupied his usual booth, a schooner of beer and a whiskey chaser on the table and his deck of cards laid out in front of him.

“What’re you havin’?” Razor asked, slinging a bar towel over his shoulder. He was wearing another obscure band tee with musty armpits and skinny jeans.

“Beer, please.”

He smirked. “Let me guess. Cold, right?”

“Yes. In fact, no.”

Jessica figured she might need something stronger if she was going to attempt a conversation with Mack McCool. “Scratch that,” she said. “I’ll have a Scotch instead.”

“Decent?” Razor sighed.

“That’s right.” Jessica pointed to where Mack McCool was sitting, studying the playing cards. “And whatever he’s having too.”

Razor didn’t even bother trying to hide his surprise, but he said nothing and set about pouring the drinks.

While she waited, Jessica fired off a text to Holliday.

In Ace’s. You around tonight?

A few seconds later, her cell phone vibrated with a response.

Sorry, working to deadline. Catch you tomorrow?

Jessica felt as though she’d just been turned down for a date.

No problem. Speak tomorrow.

She slipped the cell phone into her bag and balanced the beer glass and two tumblers of whiskey in her hands. She slowly crossed the room toward Mack McCool’s booth, careful not to slosh any of the contents over the sides. He didn’t look up when Jessica approached or when she slid into the seat across from him.

He continued to play his card game for what felt like a long time. Finally, Mack McCool looked at her. “Can I help you?”

The hot room suddenly got a whole lot chillier. The way he’d said those four words seemed to Jessica to be more of a challenge than a question.

She stared back at him, tried to show she wasn’t intimidated.

McCool had the complexion of a man with too much fondness for the whiskey bottle. Broken capillaries gave his cheeks a permanently flushed, weather-beaten appearance, and a porous nose the color of a fresh bruise completed the booze lover’s look. His pale, watery eyes were bloodshot. He looked away, unable to hold her eye.

“My name is Jessica Shaw. I’m a private—”

“I know who you are.”

“I’m investigating the Lavelle case, and I’ve been speaking to some local residents about what happened that night. I hoped we might have a chat about Eleanor and Alicia.”