LITMIR.BIZ

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shirt unbuttoned and his undershirt hanging out, he was in a league of his own. Heads swivelled in unison as they walked in.

      “I guess there’s no point in our trying to be undercover,” Green muttered.

      “Jeez,”she replied, her hand instinctively covering her nose. “It’s gone downhill even in the last ten years. It was always a blue collar bar and proud of it. No knotty pine tables or amber microbrews here. But I’m not sure even your most hard-bitten sailor out for a night with his mates would choose this place any more.”

      He glanced at her. She was wearing a no-nonsense athletic jacket, jeans and walking boots, but she hung back in the entrance to the pool room, scanning the tables uneasily.

      “Do you want to go?” he asked.

      His question seemed to challenge her. A frown flitted across her brow, and she squared her shoulders defensively. “I’m a cop, inspector, not a date.”

      He opened his mouth, but before he could think of suitable words to extricate himself, she strode up to the bar and picked a stool by the wall. He wanted to say that his question was no reflection on her capability as a police officer, but merely an admission of the obvious. That they were two plainclothes officers with more brains than brawn, walking into an unknown, potentially hostile situation. Circumstances, not gender stereotypes, advised caution.

      If he were honest, though, he had to admit that sex played a role. He was a bit drunk, and his defences were down. Women had always been his weakness, and tonight, after a trying evening with a lobster and a loutish host, Kate McGrath had seemed the perfect antidote. He’d invited her as much for her company as for her professional assistance with the case.

      He was still sufficiently sober not to say so, however, but instead joined her at the bar, where she had already ordered a Keith’s and struck up a conversation with the bartender. She cocked her head towards Green brusquely.

      “Rob, this is Inspector Green of the Ottawa Police. Rob was here the night Daniel Oliver was killed.”

      Rob was a tank of a man with a cauliflower nose and a paunch that ballooned over his apron. He flicked Green an oblique glance from under one bushy white eyebrow, then continued pulling the pint of Keith’s.

      “I’m hoping you can answer a few questions for me,” Green began.

      “What’s it to you?”

      “Someone murdered Patricia Ross in Ottawa three days ago.”

      Both bushy eyebrows shot up. “No shit. How?”

      “Strangled, by a powerful man who crushed her vertebrae like twigs. The same kind of power that killed her fiancé with a single blow,” Green added, varnishing the truth a little, for he was convinced there was a connection. Someday he’d get the evidence to back it up.

      Rob said nothing for a moment, then turned to a young man who was collecting empties from the counter. “Sal, take over.”

      He gestured the two detectives to an empty table at the back of the pool room. It was littered with bottles, but he sat down without bothering to clear them.

      “This is where Daniel was hit,” McGrath said as she pulled back a chair. Out of the corner of his eye, Green saw her wipe the chair surreptitiously, but his attention was focussed on the bartender. The big man’s face was set.

      Green’s instincts quickened. “You’ve got something to tell me, don’t you.”

      Rob leaned his massive forearms on the table, displaying an elaborate collage of snake tattoos in vivid red and black. He fixed his dark eyes on Green. “In a place like this, you hear things. Guys drink, they blab, they brag, and sometimes the truth has nothing to do with it. Daniel Oliver’s death was the talk of this place for months. Lots of guys knew and respected him, because he was a genius with engines, and he’d seen real combat. He became almost like a legend. Guys said the man who KO ’d Daniel with one punch must have been some kind of pro—a championship boxer, a tenth-dan black belt in karate. Or a special forces commando.”

      A roar rose from the crowd in the club section. The bra must have come off, Green thought, momentarily distracted. He resisted the urge to look as Rob paused to scan the crowd with a practised eye. Then, apparently satisfied that all was under control and that no one was paying them any attention, Rob resumed.

      “We get a lot of servicemen in here, usually on two-day leaves, and all they want to do is get hammered and laid. It’s a word of mouth place, like a home away from home.”

      Green glanced around the grubby room. His disbelief must have showed, because the bartender’s eyes grew hooded. “It’s going through some changes.”

      “So, are you saying someone recognized our killer after all?”

      “I’m saying somebody got drunk and blabbed. Said the killer was military and that he and Danny had served together in Yugoslavia.”

      Green opened his notebook. “Do you know this witness’s name?”

      “Roger somebody.”

      Green looked across at him with exasperation. “Can you do better than Roger somebody? A last name, or an address?”

      “Well, he wasn’t military. Local, maybe?”

      “Do you recall if this Roger was actually in the bar at the time of Oliver’s death?”

      “Yeah, he was at the table with Danny. Would have seen the whole thing if he hadn’t been passed out on the table top.”

      “When did Roger report this information?”

      “He didn’t report it. Like I said, he blabbed it to his buddies along with a whole lot of bullshit about the army.

      This was maybe a year after Danny’s death. I remember it was the same time as the government shut down the Somalia Inquiry, just when all that stuff was coming out about the Airborne Regiment torturing civilians on their peacekeeping assignment over there. The guys at the table were all saying the UN and the government doesn’t know the half of what goes on. Roger just added his story about Danny’s death to top the pack.”

      “So you didn’t believe it worth passing on?”

      Rob fixed Green with an exasperated stare that said one more snarky crack out of you and your big city snout will be sticking out your ass. “Listen, I told Norrich and—”

      “Wait a minute. Norrich was still investigating the case?”

      “Naw. He was in here one night drinking with some of his army friends. He thought the story was a crock.”

      Green glanced at McGrath, whose frown spoke volumes. The Lighthouse was hardly the type of place you want your highranking police officers hanging around. Keeping his expression neutral and disinterested, he flipped ten dollars onto the table and stood up. “Well, I guess we’ll go see if we can find anything on Roger buried in those boxes down at the station.”

      She looked dismayed. “Tonight?”

      He checked his watch, which read nearly midnight. He smelled a lead, but in a ten-year-old trail, a few hours was not going to change anything. He forced himself to behave. “First thing tomorrow will be fine.”

      * * *

      When Green strode into the incident room at eight o’clock the next morning, however, he found McGrath already ensconced at the table and surrounded by files. Her face was haggard with fatigue and her blue eyes were bloodshot. She was still wearing the same cableknit sweater and jeans she’d had on the night before.

      He grinned. “You’re worse than me.”

      She rubbed her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. I figured you only have one more day here, and I can always sleep tomorrow.” Worry pinched her brows despite the smile on her face.

      Green suspected he knew the source—Norrich—but he sidestepped her unspoken fears. “I appreciate your help. Find anything?”

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