Rosie caught sight of me and her gaze flicked to Henry, alone at his table. She closed her cookbooks, stood, and reached for an apron she tied around her waist. Idly, I watched her move around behind the bar and pour a Black Jack over ice for him. William passed her a sparkling wineglass and she filled it with Chardonnay and placed it on the bar in front of me. The wine would be second-rate, but the service was superb. She delivered Henry’s whiskey, while Cheney pulled out the stool next to him and patted it. “Have a seat. How’ve you been?”

“Good.”

As I settled next to him, I caught a whiff of his aftershave, and the familiar associations set off a warning bell. I shifted into business mode.

“You’re actually just the man I was looking for,” I said. “You remember the name Christian Satterfield? Convicted of nineteen counts of bank robbery, according to the Dispatch.”

“Know him well,” he said. “His last two jobs, he targeted the Bank of X. Phillips.”

“Your father’s bank?”

He pointed at me to confirm. “The dummy hit the same branch twice. First time, he walked off with thirteen grand. Second time, my cousin Lucy Carson was at the teller’s window as a trainee, which was bad news for him. He couldn’t find the note he’d written, so he told her he had a gun and threatened to shoot her in the face if she didn’t empty her drawer and fork over the cash. He handed her a canvas tote, so she did as requested and then pressed the button for the silent alarm.”

“Good for her. Serves him right. The paper said a couple of tellers were so stressed out, they quit.”

“Not her. Just the opposite. She testified at his trial, but downplayed the shooting threat. She said he was a gentleman, soft-spoken and polite. She said she only went for the alarm because she could see he was hurting and wanted to be caught. Once he went to prison, they carried on a feverish correspondence, pouring out their hearts. Her more than him. He’s the kind of guy women think they can rehabilitate.”

“She have any luck?”

“Nah. She was twenty-two years old and fickle as they come. Last I heard, she’d taken up with a biker accused of killing his ex. Nothing like a bad boy in need of emotional support. What’s your interest?”

“I’ve been asked to get a contact number for him now that he’s out on parole. This is for his bio-mom, who’s got money to burn. She’d like to smooth his transition, should the need arise.”

“Nice.”

“I thought so myself. I left a message with one of the federal parole officers, but I don’t want to sit around hoping he’ll call back. I figure when the kid was arrested, he must have listed a local address, so I thought I’d start there.”

“I can help you with that. Back then, he was living with his mom over on Dave Levine. I’ll have someone in Records pull up the address. I’ll call tomorrow and give you what we have.”