Death Angels

13

THE FRONT HALLWAY WAS COOL AND DARK EXCEPT FOR A STREAK of white light from the other rooms of the apartment. Winter took off his shoes and picked up the mail under the slot in the door: a circular from Mercedes about their new rollout, the latest police newsletter, postcards from a girlfriend vacationing in Thailand and another one in the Canary Islands, a slip from the Kungsport Avenue post office that a package of books had arrived, and a letter with a Spanish stamp-he recognized his mother’s purposeful handwriting and saw a little red blot in the bottom right corner of the envelope that could be anything but was probably a drop of wine.

He walked into the kitchen, set the mail on the table and the two plastic shopping bags from the Saluhallen indoor market on the counter. He emptied the bags: a halibut fillet, an eggplant, a yellow pepper, a zucchini, several tomatoes, a pint of kalamata olives and sprigs of fresh thyme and basil.

He sliced the eggplant, arranged it on a tray and sprinkled salt on the pieces. After pitting a few olives, he poured a little oil into a baking dish, turned on the oven and sliced the pepper, tomatoes and squash. He patted the eggplant dry and sautéed the slices in a large skillet. In the dish, he overlapped the vegetables along with minced garlic and the olives, scattered herbs on top, added a little more oil and finished off with a few twists of the pepper mill. Finally he put the dish in the oven beside two potatoes that he had cut in half and sprinkled with sea salt. He waited fifteen minutes and laid the fish on top of the vegetables.

He ate alone in the living room, looking out over the city and forgoing the distraction of music or a book. He drank half a bottle of carbonated mineral water. You should cook more often, he told himself. It calms you down. The doubting Thomas that has always tormented you about putting up a good front stops knocking on the door.

He smiled to himself and stood up. As he carried the glass and tray through the hallway, he heard the elevator jangle its way up to his floor. The cage opened and closed in rapid succession, followed by the ringing of his doorbell. He glanced at his watch-it was nine o’clock.

He went into the kitchen, put the glass and tray down, walked back to the hallway and opened the door. It was Bolger.

“Hope you’re not getting ready for bed or something.”

“Come in, pal.”

Bolger closed the door behind him, removed his leather jacket and kicked off his shoes.

“Would you like some coffee?” Winter asked.

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

They went into the kitchen and Bolger sat down at the table while Winter fussed with the espresso machine. “Just in case we were planning on sleeping tonight.” He smiled.

“Not that I have any information that would make you sleepy,” Bolger said. “Or keep you up, for that matter.”

“Maybe you just felt like talking.”

“Hmm.”

“You haven’t been here in a while.”

“I don’t remember much about the last time. I was smashed, no doubt.”

“You were pissed off about one thing or another.”

“There’s always something…”

“Anyway, I’m glad you came,” Winter said. “I need you more than ever.” He filled two small cups, put them on the table and sat down across from Bolger. He seems uptight about something, Winter thought. He hasn’t aged much since high school-as long as you don’t look too closely, that is. “What have you found out?” he asked.

“Apparently Jamie was a popular guy, but that’s true of most bar-tenders.”

“At least early in the evening.”

Bolger sipped his coffee. “This tastes like melted asphalt.”

“Then I succeeded.”

“Am I supposed to chew on it or something?”

“You got it.”

“When you work at a bar, you’re surrounded by people who aren’t your friends exactly but they think of you as one of them.”

“I see.”

“Casual acquaintances, but something more.”

“Jamie must have had other friends too.”

“A couple of boyfriends.” Bolger took another sip.

“So it’s true?”

“That’s what they say. Or Douglas, rather, the guy who runs the place. No specific evidence or anything, but it’s not the kind of thing you can hide. He gave me a couple of names. I brought them with me in case you need them.” He took out his wallet, unfolded a slip of paper and handed it to Winter.

“Thanks.”

“They’re both around the same age as he was,” Bolger said.

“Hmm.”

“Fags, I would assume.”

“Okay.”

“I have no idea if they’re the violent kind.”

Winter committed the names to memory, put the slip of paper in his breast pocket and sipped his coffee like bitter medicine that you take for no apparent reason. “How have other restaurant owners been reacting to all this?”

“It’s a rather unpleasant affair, of course, but nothing to get all riled up about.”

“I understand.”

“It’s not like he went and got himself murdered because he was a bartender.”

“No.”

“Somebody has too little brandy in his Lumumba, racks his brain about how to get back at the barkeep and finally takes his revenge.”

“Perhaps I chose the safer occupation after all.”

“Or a martini that isn’t dry enough, or shaken instead of stirred.”

Or maybe as thick as this coffee, Winter thought. My spoon can almost stand straight up in it.

“At my place, we let some ice settle in the vermouth for a while,” Bolger said. “Then we drain the glass and put the ice in the gin.”

“Somebody might call that stinginess.”

“Our customers call it style.”

Johan has never been very good at wearing a poker face, Winter thought. Or maybe too good.

“Do you think somebody in the restaurant industry could have done it?” Bolger asked.

“You know I never speculate.”

“But it’s possible, right?”

“Anything’s possible, and that complicates matters, doesn’t it?”

“Do you want me to ask around some more?”

“Definitely; I need all the help I can get.”

“ Douglas said something about having seen a new face several times at his bar recently,” Bolger volunteered. “He said that he usually notices when someone comes back a second or third time.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s hard to remember entire groups, but if somebody shows up alone often enough, it tends to stick in your mind.”

“Was there something unusual about this particular customer?” Winter asked.

“That’s basically all he had to say.”

“I’ve read all the witness statements, but Douglas didn’t mention anything about that when we talked to him.”

“I guess you’ll have to ask him again.”

“Right.”

“A little footwork for the chief investigator.”

Winter reached for the espresso machine. “More coffee?”