Dark in Death (In Death 46)

me in when I was on break. Probably did. I didn’t see her come in. I just heard a couple people talking about how she was making moves on Glaze, and he wasn’t having any. Then I saw the redhead. I saw her at the end of the bar. I didn’t see her before, or see her come in. She was just there. It was crowded, so she could’ve slipped by me. If I’d—”

“No ifs, Brad. You saw her, you tagged me.”

“Like, right then, I swear. It took me a minute to get to Malted—that’s our bouncer. A couple minutes. And when I got back. Jesus, when I got back she—Loxie—she was on the floor. Convulsing. I was going to go over to her, like you said to, and maybe move her to my station at the bar, but …”

He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I was going to tag nine-one-one when I saw Loxie on the floor. And the redhead was standing there, watching. She saw me—the redhead. She saw me seeing her, and she took off. I tried to yell for Malt, but he couldn’t hear me. I tried to run after her, but I got hung up. Back door’s through the kitchen, so I figured that. I asked when I ran in, and they said she’d gone straight out the back. I wasn’t fast enough. I lost her.”

He swiped at his eyes. “I’ve never seen anybody die before. It’s bad. Man, it’s bad. I couldn’t even give the artist cop a decent description. But I can now.” He swiped again. “I got a good look at her, good enough, and I’ve got it in my head. It’s weird light in here, but I got a good look.”

“Can you come into Central, work with him tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I can come in first thing. I’m sure as hell not going to sleep tonight.”

“You go on home now. Is there anyone there?”

“Yeah, two roommates, but … I’ve got a girl. I think I’m going to her place.”

“I’m going to get you transpo.”

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s bad out there. We’ll get you to your girl.”

She walked off to arrange it, then took the other bartenders.

And found the one, still shaking, who’d poured and shaken the base for the murder weapon. Sasha Quint, in her first month as bartender, trembled and leaked as she gave her statement.

“Brad told me, he told me about watching out for a woman with red hair and blue dreads. And to tell him if I saw her, especially if she ordered a pomtini. I wasn’t paying attention, we were so busy, and I just went on auto. This guy knocked over a whole screamer, all over the bar, then got in my face about it. He was really harsh, so I was mopping it up and making him a new one, and she must’ve sat down.”

“She wasn’t sitting there before the screamer?”

“I don’t think so, I really don’t. I’m not a hundred percent, okay? But I don’t think so. And I’m dealing with this dickwad, and she orders the pomtini. Lays down the cash, and a solid tip. I was thinking more about the dickwad, and the tip. And Brad was on his break, I think, and people were yelling for drinks, and I had two table orders to fill, so I was just on auto.”

She snuffled back a sob. “Am I in trouble?”

“Did she say anything else to you?”

“No. I don’t think. She just said, ‘pomtini,’ put the cash down. And I finished the screamer for the dickwad, who was still giving me grief like I knocked the glass over, which I didn’t, and I finished one of the table orders, mixed the pomtini, took the cash, filled the other table order. She wasn’t sitting there anymore, I don’t think, because Dorinda—one of the waitresses—came up and ran down another order, and I think I’d have seen her. And Brad was back, and I thought, ‘phew,’ then all hell broke loose.”

“Did you see her when all hell broke loose?”

“No. No, not really. People were yelling, and, Jesus, Brad jumped over the bar and started running. Then some people were pushing and shoving, more than usual. And then I could see something bad was happening at VIP-4, but I didn’t know what. I don’t understand what happened. I know the Flash died. She OD’d, right?”

“Not the way you mean. Do you have the cash for the pomtini?”

“I put it in the till. I … I, uh, put the tip in my pocket. You’re supposed to report it, but …”

“I need that. I’m going to give you a receipt for it, and you’ll get it back.”

“Okay.” She took some bills out of the bar apron pocket, drew out a fresh, lettuce-crisp five. “It’s this because it’s, like, brand-new.”

Eve signaled Roarke, then programmed a receipt, printed it out, handed it over. “You can go.”

“I’m not in trouble?”

“No.”

“I’m really sorry I made the drink.”