Nineteen

Marta had played the security cam video from Jim's bar more times than she could count, trying to get a better look at the woman Cherise Fowler met with, however briefly. Jim had been right about the time Cherise came into the bar, and right again that the woman she'd been waiting for arrived around ten. Five minutes after, to be exact.

Jim's description was pretty on the money, as well. She was white, probably no more than a hundred and twenty pounds. Stringy hair that hung over her face. The camera captured most of the bar's interior, and the fish-eye effect, along with grainy resolution, meant that any distinguishing physical features Cherise's friend might have were difficult to assess.

If there was even a remote chance this woman might return to the bar Saturday night to make another sale, Marta wanted to be there. She believed she would recognize her, even from that shitty video, and presumably Jim would give her a nod if she was the one.

When Marta told her wife, Ginny, she would have to duck out early from the function they were attending that evening, Ginny was neither pleased nor surprised. It was a retirement dinner for one of Ginny's coworkers at the insurance company where she worked. The event was to start after six.

"I can hang in until eight-thirty," Marta said. "The thing might even be over by then."

"That's when the coffee gets served and the speeches begin," Ginny said.

Marta smiled. "Then maybe you'd like to sneak out with me."

"I'm giving one of the speeches."

"Oh, well, that does make it awkward."

"You go. I'll Uber home. Pretend you got a text or something."

It wasn't as though Marta hadn't done this kind of thing before. Last year she postponed their fifth anniversary dinner because there was a tip a gang of smash-and-grab thieves was going to hit a mall jewelry store. Three of them, all wearing black balaclavas, would rush in, take hammers to the glass cases, scoop up as many goods as they could in fifteen seconds, then go tearing back out of the mall, where the fourth member of the team was sitting behind the wheel of their nondescript, but turbocharged, getaway car.

Marta was sorry they wore those balaclavas, because she couldn't see the look on their faces when they came running out and their getaway car had nobody behind the wheel, their driver sitting handcuffed in the back of a cruiser.

What was different about that takedown from what Marta planned for this evening was that the former had been a well-executed team effort, and tonight was something she was doing on her own time. A small reconnaissance that, if she spotted the person she was looking for, might lead to the bigger fish who were bringing this stuff into the country.

The fentanyl boom had been out of control for a long time, and more recently there'd been reports some dealers were lacing the opioid with animal sedative. From what Marta'd learned, you'd be better off dead than taking this shit. Fentanyl laced with xylazine was turning addicts' skin into dead, scaly tissue. Some people were actually losing limbs. The stuff was a fucking horror show. And if you took too much of it at once, you wouldn't have to wait for those ghastly side effects to kick in. Your life would be over before you knew it.

As promised, Marta pretended to sense a buzzing from her purse as dessert—some kind of blueberry crumble thing that looked like it had been made with a cement mixer—arrived at the table. Marta pulled out her phone, shielding it with her hand so no one would notice that it was blank, and shook her head with feigned regret. She made whispered apologies to the rest of the table, pushed her chair back, stood up, and slipped away, but not before catching a look from Ginny that said something along the lines of You'll pay for this later.

She had dressed smartly but simply for the evening. Nothing too glitzy glam. Black silk pants and a matching top, simple string of pearls for her neck, strappy shoes with three-inch heels. She'd have gladly gone face-to-face with a serial killer if it meant she could get out of those shoes, which she did the moment she reached the car. She had packed a comfortable pair of sneakers that she laced up sitting on the driver's seat with the door open. The string of pearls she removed and tucked into the glove compartment. Finally, she pulled a plain dark blue sweater over her head that covered the silk top.

Marta keyed the ignition and drove to Jim's.

She found a spot at the curb across from the bar a few minutes after nine. Her hope was that, if her alleged fentanyl dealer did return, she'd come around the same time as she had the other night. She got out of her car, locked it, and went inside, sidling past a couple of young men who'd stepped out of the bar to smoke.

Once inside, she discreetly scanned the room. So far, the woman was a no-show. Marta took a seat at the bar.

Jim approached, gave her a sly smile, and said quietly, "Back again?"

She smiled. "Seen our friend?"

He shook his head. "Have not. Usual?"

Marta nodded, and moments later Jim returned with a Coke over ice, and then proceeded to serve other customers.

The bar was about half full. There were a few couples, mostly in their twenties, and a group of four men in one booth were having a discussion, loud enough to be heard from where Marta sat, about whether Marvel superheroes were better than DC. Three stools down from Marta sat a thin man in his sixties slowly ripping apart a paper napkin, his beer glass nearly empty.

Marta gave him a nod. "Evening," she said.

"It is that," he replied.

Marta had a feeling she'd seen him before. She struggled to place him, then realized she'd encountered him a few days earlier at Lodge High School. He was the caretaker, the one who hadn't fixed the defective latch on the door Mark LeDrew used to enter the building. She couldn't recall the caretaker's name. She was worried he'd recognize her, say something like Hey, aren't you that cop? But, evidently more interested in shredding his napkin, he hadn't given her a second glance.

Jim checked in on him. "You want to settle up, Ronny?"

That's it, Marta thought. Ronny Grant. She'd heard he'd been fired, or suspended pending a hearing.

"Think I'll have another," Ronny said.

"Sure about that?" Jim asked.

"Never been more sure about anything," he said.

"Because if you drove, I'm gonna want your keys."

Marta wondered whether Jim was always this mindful of his customers' fitness to get behind the wheel, or if this was for her benefit.

"I walked, not that it's any of your fucking business," Ronny said, forming his words carefully, figuring it would make him sound less under the influence, but having the opposite effect. "I'm only a couple of blocks away."

"Okey dokey," Jim said. "You need anything, just holler."

"How about a job?" Ronny asked, snorting a laugh, before he drained his glass and set it down hard on the counter.

Jim fetched him another beer, then turned his attention to Marta. "Let me ask you this," he said.

"What?" she said.

He tapped her ring finger. "How's your husband feel about you hanging out alone in bar on Saturday night, even if it's for work?"

"I don't have a husband."

He glanced down at the ring again. "This for show? Keep guys from bothering you?"

"No," she said, waiting to see how long it took him.

"Oh, sorry," Jim said. "Your husband passed away." Didn't even make it a question, he was so sure he'd figured it out.

Marta didn't want to play with him any longer. "My wife's very much alive, thanks," she said.

A slow, self-deprecating smile crossed his lips. "Do I look as dumb as I feel?"

"Pretty much," she said.

His eyes moved but his head remained fixed. "Don't look now, but your girl has arrived."

Marta took a sip of her Coke. "Alone?"

He hummed an affirmative. "Scoping the place out."

The newcomer took a seat next to Grant, two over from Marta, who continued to nurse her Coke.

All she wanted was a really good look at her. Then she'd depart, get in her unmarked cruiser, wait for her to leave, and see where she went. If she got into a vehicle, Marta would run the plate.

Jim approached the woman. "What's your pleasure?"

"Gin and tonic," she said.

Marta turned slightly on her stool so she could see her better out of the corner of her eye.

When Jim brought her drink, the woman asked, "That girl that was here the other night around?"

"Cherise?"

"Yeah."

Jim snatched up the bills she'd tossed onto the bar. "Not so far."

Clearly she hadn't gotten the memo about what had happened to Cherise, Marta thought.

If she hadn't come to see anyone else, she probably wasn't staying long. Marta figured she would cut out now, wait outside. She threw a five and a couple of singles onto the bar and was about to slip off the stool.

"Hey," said the woman.

Marta turned. "You talking to me?"

"Yeah." The woman was looking at her feet. "What kind of runners is those?"

Marta glanced down reflexively, like she needed a reminder. "Converse," she said.

"What they run ya?"

"I don't know. Sixty, seventy bucks."

The woman nodded. "They look about my size. Comfortable. Casual. You got an interesting sense of style. Sneakers and silk pants. Like putting on a sweatshirt when you're wearing diamond earrings."

"Not a fan of heels," Marta said.

"If it was me, coming in here alone, looking for some company, I'd have some fuck-me pumps on."

Marta flashed a smile, said, "You have a nice evening," and headed for the door.

Once outside, she crossed the street, got into her car, and said aloud, "Shit shit shit."

Cherise's likely supplier, striking up a conversation like that? Had Marta been made? She should have changed into a pair of jeans. Had she sent off some kind of cop vibe? Was she getting sloppy? All these years in the department, and suddenly she felt like some kind of amateur.

Well, the night wasn't over yet. She'd hang in, wait for the woman to come out, see if she got into one of the other cars parked on the street. Check the plate, see where she went.

She waited.

And waited.

After half an hour, she wondered whether she could have missed her. If the woman had, in fact, suspected Marta was a cop, maybe she'd slipped out the back door.

She got out of the car, debating whether to go back into the bar, just take one step in, see if the woman was still there. If she was gone, there was no point sitting out here all night like an idiot.

Behind her, someone said:

"Bet you thought I'd never finish my drink."

Marta had spun around only halfway when something hit her across the side of the head. Everything went black and down she went.

"Thought something was off about you. And then that sad fucker next to me confirmed it. Don't mess with us, darlin'."

But the words were wasted on her. Marta was out cold.