Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree

Chapter 57

IN THE LONG TRADITION of counterculture dives, where a cop walking in was about as welcome as an ACLU recruiter at a skinhead convention, the KGB set the bar at a new low. There were narrow rows of chipped pine tables with societal dropouts slouched in front of computer screens. Plus a mixed collection of riffraff sucking cigarette butts at the bar. Not much else caught my eye at first.

“You sure you're up for this?” I muttered to Molinari. “It'll be hard to explain if I got your face bashed in here.”

“I was a prosecutor back in New York,” Molinari said, and stepped forward. “I love this shit.”

I went up to the bartender, a skinny mouse-faced guy in a muscle shirt with tattoos up and down both arms and a very long ponytail. After about fifteen seconds of being ignored, I leaned over and caught his eye. “We were just passing by and were wondering if anyone would like to support our fellow-ship mission in Chad?”

I couldn't get a half-smile out of him. He poured a beer for a black guy in an African skullcap seated two stools down.

“Okay, we're cops” - I dropped my shield - “you saw right through me.”

“Sorry, we're a private club,” the bartender said. “Need to see a membership card.”

“Hey, just like Costco,” I said, glancing at Molinari.

“Yeah, like Costco.” The bartender grinned.

Molinari leaned forward, wrapping his hand over Pony-tail's as he went to draw a beer. He put a silver shield with the words DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY in the guy's face. “I want you to follow this closely. I take my phone, and in about ten seconds a team of federal agents will barge in here and rip this place down to the two-by-fours. Now as I look around, there's probably about fifteen, twenty thousand dollars in computers in here, and you know how clumsy these police goons can be when they're lugging heavy evi-dence. So we need to ask you a few questions.”

Ponytail glared at him.

“What do you say, Six-pack,” the black man in the African skullcap spoke up, “under the circumstances I think we can waive the membership requirement this once.”

He turned and faced us, a cheerful grin beneath the skull-cap, saying in a deep British accent, “Amir Kamor. Six-pack was just expressing his desire to keep the clientele here on its usual high level. No need to make harsh threats. Please, can I invite you into my office?”

“Six-pack?” I glanced at the bartender and rolled my eyes. “That's creative.”

In the rear there was a cramped private cubicle, barely larger than a desk. The walls were papered with posters and event notices - activist stuff, rallies for the poor, Free East Timor, AIDS in Africa.

I passed Amir Kamor my Homicide card and he nodded, as if impressed. “You said you have a few questions.”

“Were you here last night, Mr. Kamor?” I started in. “Around ten P.M.?”

“I'm here every night, Lieutenant. You know the food and liquor business. It's all about whose hands are in the register.”

“An e-mail was sent from here last night, at ten-oh-three P.M.”

“Messages are sent from here every night. People use us as a source to air ideas. That's what we do here. Air ideas.”

“You have a way of determining who was here? Anybody out of the ordinary?”

“Anyone who comes in this place is out of the ordinary.” Kamor grinned. No one smiled at his joke. “Ten o'clock, you say...The place was filled. It may help if you could tell me just whom you're looking for or what they've done?”

I took out the photo of Wendy Raymore and the sketches of the woman who had accompanied George Bengosian. Kamor studied them, ridges digging into his wide brow. He sighed deeply. “I may have seen them over the years or I may have not. Our customers tend to come and go.”

“Okay, then what about these?” I switched gears, taking out the FBI photos from Seattle. One by one, he leafed through them, merely shaking his head.

Then I noticed that he stared twice and blinked.

“You recognize someone....”

“Merely a thought,” he said, shaking his head. “I don't think so. Honestly.”

“No, you recognized a face. Who was it?”

I re-laid the photos in a pattern on his desk.

“Remind me, Madam Lieutenant,” Kamor said, looking up, “why do I want to assist the police on this? Your state is one that is built on corruption and greed. As the enforcers of its will, you are part of its foundation.”

“I guess there's always this,” Molinari said. He put his face close to the startled Kamor's. “I don't really give a damn about what you jerk yourselves off about in here, but you should also know what security bill these crimes will be adjudicated under. We're not talking withholding evidence, Mr. Kamor. We're talking treason and conspiracy to commit terror. Take a look at the photos one more time. Please.”

“Trust me, Mr. Kamor,” I said, meeting his eyes, “you don't want to be anywhere near the heat on this one.”

The veins on the bar owner's neck began to swell. He low-ered his eyes and leafed through the photos again. “Maybe... I don't know... ,” he muttered.

After some hesitation, he nudged one out. “He's different now. His hair is shorter, not so much like a hippie. He has a beard. He's been in here.”

Stephen Hardaway. Alias Morgan Bloom. Alias Mal Cald-well.

“Is he a regular? How do we find him? This is important.”

“I don't know.” Kamor shook his head. "That is the truth. I remember him, once or twice some time ago. I think he came from somewhere up north.

“One more thing...” Kamor swallowed. “You will remem-ber this the next time you barge in and threaten to deprive me of my rights.”

He flicked another photo forward. Another face he knew.

“This one, I saw in here last night.”

We were staring at Wendy Raymore, the au pair.