Mailboat I by Danielle Lincoln Hanna

Author:Danielle Lincoln Hanna
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Suspense
Publisher: Hearth & Homicide Press, LLC
Published: 2016-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

RYAN

I walked into the Geneva Bar and Grill, feeling like a cop in the middle of a bar—which is exactly what I was. At this time of the afternoon, only a handful of patrons filled a scattering of tables. Country music played over the sound system, and no less than three TVs showed a baseball game in full swing. The Cubs were ahead, three-to-two.

A forty-something woman trying to look like a twenty-something breezed by in a mini skirt, lots of makeup, and a blouse that could have had at least two more buttons done up. After viewing Bud Weber’s wall art at his house, I was equally unimpressed with his employee. Bailey worked here part-time—and I hoped she never viewed this particular woman as a role model.

I shook my head in wonder. What was happening to me? The old Ryan would have been delighted by this female specimen.

“Have a seat, hon. Be right with ya,” the woman said.

I stepped forward to halt her progress. “Is Bud in?” I decided using his full name would make it sound too official.

She stopped and eyed my uniform. “Yeah. He’s in the bar.” She jerked her head.

“Thanks.”

I made for a neon sign over a doorway and climbed three steps. The lights were darker, the music louder, and the TVs bigger. A knot of men sat at the bar on stools, beer bottles parked in front of them at various stages of completion.

One man stood behind the bar, in the middle of telling some story, while the other guys hung on every word. The bartender was at least six two and could have played tackle in his younger years. Any imposing body mass he may have once possessed was now concentrated primarily in a beer belly, which strained at his black tee shirt. I couldn’t follow the story the man was trying to tell—half of it was just profanity—but his audience snickered in anticipation, and when the punchline finally hit, they exploded with laughter.

One of them looked up and noticed me. “Aw, crap, don’t tell me it’s illegal now to drink beer in the afternoon.”

The bartender cuffed the back of his head. “Shut up, Tony.” He moved away from the beer drinkers. “Hey, officer, what can I do for ya? Can I get you anything?” He spoke with a thick Chicago accent.

I smiled. “No thanks. I’m just here to ask you a few questions.”

“My liquor license is all straight, officer. My business license, too.”

“It’s not that.”

“Oh. Well, sit down.” He motioned to the bar stools. “Crap, you can have a soda, can’t you? What do you want?”

I stayed standing. “I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

Bud hesitated, as if weighing whether he were in trouble. He finally offered his hand over the bar. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Bud Weber. I own this place.”

I took his hand. “Officer Ryan Brandt.”

“Good to meet you. You don’t mind if I have a drink, do you?”

“No, not at all.”

He pulled down a glass from a shelf behind the bar and filled it at the tap.

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