Page 24 of Fallen

There are two kinds of bars, in my mind. There’s the kind where a police uniform will garner you a free cup of coffee and, if you’re lucky, a burger. And then there’s the kind where the sight of a cop clears the room. I know the instant I walk in that this one falls into the former group.

An old Traffic song “The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys” thrums from sleek speakers mounted on the beadboard ceiling. Two men in coveralls and caps sit at the bar, beer mugs sweating in front of them. Neither of them pays me any heed when I pass. A third man with a beard and camo jacket sits alone at the end of the bar, watching the Cavaliers trounce the Golden State Warriors on a TV mounted on the wall. Two women wearing tight jeans and equally tight shirts alternate between checking their phones and shooting pool. The bartender is a burly man in his forties, checked shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, white apron tied at his waist, hair pulled into a ponytail at his nape. His eyes latch on to mine as I sidle up to the bar.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

“You have any decaf made?” I ask.

“Naw,” he says. “Got a Keurig in the back, though. Makes a pretty decent cup. Cream? Sugar?”

“Black,” I tell him. “Thanks.”

He returns a short while later, cup and saucer in hand. “We don’t get too many cops in here. They prefer the sports bar down on the south side.” He tilts his head, reading the emblem on my uniform jacket. “You’re a ways from home.”

I pick up the coffee and sip. It’s strong with a nice kick of bitter. “Good coffee.”

“I like it.”

I introduce myself. His name is Jack Boucher. He’s owned the place for nine months. Turned his first profit last week.

“I’m working on a case.” I pull the photo of Rachael Schwartz from my pocket and set it on the bar between us. “Have you seen her?”

He pulls reading glasses from his shirt pocket and squints at the photo. “She missing or something?”

“Actually, this is a murder investigation.”

“Holy shit. Wow.” He looks harder at the photo. “Pretty girl. Kind of classy looking.” He shakes his head. “She ain’t been in here that I know of. I would have remembered her.”

He’s still looking at the photo, so I leave it on the bar top. “Is it possible she came in when you were off?”

“I’m here seven days a week. Came in early for the lunch shift a couple times, so I could have missed her, if she came in later.”

“Anyone else here I can talk to?” I ask.

“I got a gal bartends nights when I’m not here,” he tells me. “Got a part-time cook, too. They both went home a couple hours ago.”

“Will they be here tomorrow?”

“Dixie comes in around eleven. She’s my cook. Rona, my bartender, gets here about four o’clock.”

I nod. “You got a business card?”

“Yup.” He snags a napkin off the bar and a pen from his breast pocket. “Right here.” Grinning, he jots a number. “That’s the landline. Whoever’s running the place will pick up.”

I take another sip of coffee. “You guys have security cameras?”

“I got one on the rear door. We were broken into a couple months ago.” He shakes his head. “Damn camera’s on the fritz, though.”

I look around at the patrons. “Are any of these folks regulars?”

“Most of them are in here just about every night,” he tells me. “’Cept them girls playing pool. We get a regular lunch rush, too. People who work in the area mostly. You’re more than welcome to talk to anyone you want.”

“If you remember anything about this woman, will you give me a call?” I hand him my card.

“You know it.”

I pick up the photo. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Good luck with your case, Chief Burkholder. I hope you find the cretin that done it.”