Page 49 of Fallen

“In that case.” He motions toward the clock on my dash, which reads 7:00 P.M. “You game for a beer?”

“Tomasetti, you’re going to have to buy me something a hell of a lot stronger than beer.”

The Pub was nearly vacant last time I was here. Of course, it had been late, after ten P.M. Tonight, the parking lot is chock-full of vehicles. Tomasetti and I park next to a white Dodge Ram pickup truck with the logo of a Wooster-based landscaping company emblazoned on the door.

We enter to the scream and bang of some chain-saw rock number I don’t recognize. Every stool at the bar is occupied, mostly by men who look as if they’ve just gotten off work, wearing everything from oil-stained coveralls to shirts and ties. At the pool table in the back, three men in their twenties sip drafts in sweating mugs, shoot balls, and watch the nearest booth, where four college-age girls raise shot glasses in a toast. The bartender is female, in her fifties, with blond hair piled atop her head and a face full of artfully applied makeup. She’s wearing a short black skirt with a white button-down shirt and an apron set snug against a nicely shaped body.

She nods at me and Tomasetti as we seat ourselves in a booth. In less than a minute, she’s standing next to our table, order book in hand. “Hey, thanks for coming in tonight. What can I get you folks?”

I identify myself and pull out the photo of Rachael Schwartz. “I’m wondering if you’ve seen this woman.”

She bends, pulls clunky readers off her crown, and squints at the photo. “Oh my God. That’s the girl who was killed down there in Painters Mill.”

I nod. “Have you seen her?”

“In here?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. She’s a pretty little thing. Unless I was crazy busy, I probably would have remembered her.” She uses her pen to scratch her head. “When was she in here?”

“Night before last,” I tell her. “Were you working?”

“I was.” She looks at the photo again, gives another shake of her head. “Wish I could be more help. I sure don’t like the idea of some monster getting away with something like that.” She gives an exaggerated shiver. “But I didn’t see her. We have dollar drafts that evening and this place was hopping.”

Tomasetti pulls the redacted copy of Rachael Schwartz’s credit card record from his pocket and shows her the charge. “Would it be possible for you to find the ticket for this charge?” he asks.

“We got computerized cash registers last summer. I bet Jack can come up with something. He’s off tonight.”

“I met him last time I was here,” I tell her. “I’ll give him a call.”

Tomasetti motions in the general direction of the bar and pool tables. “Do you mind if we ask around?”

“Hey, knock your socks off.” She tucks the pen and order book into the pocket of her apron. “Hope you find the bastard.”

Tomasetti takes the bar. I meander to the pool table at the rear. The players are a lively group. Not too drunk—yet—and tickled to be talking to a female chief of police about a murder. I dig out the photo of Rachael Schwartz, but none of the young men remember seeing her. It doesn’t take long for me to realize this second trip to The Pub is as big a waste of time as the first.

“No one who knew Rachael recalls her knowing anyone in the Wooster area.” Frustration presses down on me as Tomasetti and I walk to the Explorer.

“On the other hand,” he says slowly, “Wooster isn’t too far to drive if you’re from Painters Mill and you don’t want to be seen together.”

Tomasetti opens the passenger door, but doesn’t get in. His eyes are narrowed on the service station and convenience store next door. The one with the green and white neon sign touting cigarettes, beer, and diesel.

We exchange a look over the top of the Explorer. “I’m not going to get my hopes up,” I tell him.

“Worth a shot.”

We get in. Behind the wheel, I put the vehicle in gear and idle over to the convenience store, park in front. I’m not even out of the vehicle yet when I notice the security camera tucked beneath the eve of the building. A bulging eye casting a disapproving glare in the general direction of The Pub.

I grin at Tomasetti. “Sometimes you earn your keep.”

“That’s what I keep telling you.” He grins back and we head inside.

A lanky young woman with a pierced brow, arms covered with tats, sits on a stool behind the counter, watching a game show on TV. She eyes us suspiciously as we make our way to her.

“You the manager?” I ask.

She looks me up and down. “Who wants to know?”

Tomasetti lays his ID on the counter. “The Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation.” He motions in the general direction of the camera. “Are your security cameras working?”

“As far as I know.” She cocks her head, curious. “Something going on?”