Sting

“Minutes after. Five, maybe.”

Joe rubbed his eyes, which were gritty from lack of sleep and stinging from the lingering tobacco fog in the bar. “Okay, the taciturn one, can you give us a more detailed physical description?” He began by asking his height, wanting to know if the bartender’s recollection corresponded with Royce Sherman’s “on the tall side.”

“Six three at least. Lean, but ripped. More wide receiver than running back. Y’all Saints fans?”

Joe nodded, asking, “His approximate age?”

“Hmm, mid- to late thirties. A face that severe, it’s hard to tell.”

“Hair?”

“Brownish. Longish. Not as long as mine.”

Joe noted the length of the man’s braid and smiled. “That’d be hard for any man to beat.”

“His came to his collar in back.”

“Facial hair?”

He stroked his luxuriant beard. “No. I would’ve noticed.”

“Tattoos, scars, piercings? Anything like that?”

“No tattoos. None visible, anyway.” He extended his arms. “I would have noticed ink. He did have a scar, though. Here,” he said, touching the side of his chin.

Joe’s heart skipped.

Hick stopped pecking on his iPad screen and raised his head.

Joe cleared his throat. “You sure?”

“About the scar? Yeah,” the bartender replied. “I noticed because it cut through his scruff. Oh, does that count as facial hair? He’d gone two, maybe three days without shaving.”

“Describe the scar.”

“Well, as I was facing him, it was…” He used Joe’s chin as a means of remembering correctly. “On the left side. Sort of curved, like the letter C, only backward,” he said, drawing one in the air inches from Joe’s face.

Without taking his eyes off the bartender, Joe asked Hick, “Got a picture handy?”

Joe’s heart had resumed beating and now thudded with dread as Hick went through the necessary steps to open his photos file. He brought up a mug shot, zoomed it into a close-up, and turned the screen toward the bartender, who happily exclaimed, “That’s the guy. No question.” Then, gauging their expressions, his white smile wavered. “Not good?”

Joe turned away and reached for his cell phone, saying to Hick over his shoulder, “I gotta alert the office.”

Hick was left to answer the bartender’s question. “No. Not good. Especially for Jordie Bennett.”

Chapter 7

Well?” Shaw demanded.

“What is that?”

Holding the scrap of food wrapper by both ends directly in front of Jordie Bennett’s face, he stretched it taut so she could better see what had been scrawled on it. “A phone number. Local area code.”

“That was in my pocket?” She looked from the strip of paper into his eyes. “I don’t know anything about it.”

He unsnapped the breast pocket of his shirt and stuffed the paper inside. “Right. And the jerk in the bar was also a total stranger.”

“He was.”