Free Broken Grace by E.C. Diskin

telling the boys how he’s taking the big plunge, I seen him leave here with some other woman.”
    “How do you know it was another woman? Do you know his girlfriend?” Hackett asked.
    “No, no. We don’t get many chicks in this place. It’s more of an escape. But this chick came in looking like, I don’t know, like Sharon Stone or something. Fuckin’ hot, that’s my point. Mike’s up at the bar, getting a few, and this girl, she starts chatting him up, flirting. She wasn’t no girlfriend. I mean, I was at the other end of the bar, but you can tell when girls want some just by the way they hold a cigarette, you know?”
    “So she smoked?”
    “Well, not in here, of course. But she was holding an unlit one at the time. Anyway, next thing I know, he’s leaving with the girl. Got his arm around her and everything.”
    “So this was Sunday . . . December first?” Hackett asked, looking at his notes.
    “Yeah. Had to be.”
    “So he meets some girl and takes off with her? Can you remember what the girl looked like?”
    “Skinny thing, high heels, long blonde hair. You know that white blonde, like a porn star. Yeah, I mighta left with her too, if she’d asked me.”
    “Did she come in with anyone else? Did you see her talking to anyone else?” Bishop asked.
    “She might have come in with someone. I didn’t see. But there weren’t any other women in here. Grant you, it’s not exactly normal for a looker like that to be hanging out in a shithole like this, but she obviously liked what she saw in Mike. I mean, I guess he’s good-looking. Was good-looking. Fuck.” Ed shook his head and crossed his arms.
    “Just a second.” Hackett pulled out his phone, searched “Michael Cahill” on Facebook, and found the picture posted a few days before the murder. “Is this the girl you saw with him?”
    The bartender took the phone and squinted at the picture. “I don’t know if I could say. The hair color is about right, but I didn’t focus too much on her face, if you know what I mean.”
    Hackett took back the phone. “And you work on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and Cahill didn’t come in?”
    “That’s right. I didn’t see him, anyway.”
    Hackett turned to Bishop. “Cahill worked on Wednesday too.”
    “Who runs the bar on Wednesdays?” Bishop asked.
    “Richie. He’s got Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.”
    “So it’s possible Mr. Cahill—Mike—was here on Wednesday.”
    “Hold on,” Ed said. A customer waved him over. The bartender poured his shot and beer, then returned to Hackett. “No idea, man.”
    Bishop stood. “Well, this is helpful. Do me a favor. Write down Richie’s number.”
    “Sure thing,” Ed said, noting the number on a cocktail napkin.
    “Does he live around here?” Hackett asked.
    “He’s about an hour away in Three Rivers. But like I said, he’ll be in Wednesday, anytime after two.”
    Bishop held up the napkin. “Well, thanks. One other thing,” he said. “In general, would you say that Mike was a heavy drinker?”
    “No more than anyone else.”
    “Never belligerent, never had to cut him off?”
    “No.”
    “You ever see him and wonder if he was on drugs?”
    “Nope.”
    “And how would you describe him—nice guy, tough guy, difficult? Anything?”
    “I don’t know. Good guy. They’re all good guys. Some rougher around the edges, but these guys keep me in business. So yeah, I’d say they’re all nice guys.”
    “And on that Sunday you saw him, how many drinks would you say he had?”
    “Maybe two beers.”
    Bishop nodded, then pulled out his card. “Thanks,” he said. “And if you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call.”
    “Sure thing.”
    Back in the squad car, Bishop turned to Hackett. “We need to talk to Wesley Flynn again.”
    “The guy who found Cahill?”
    “Yeah. Flynn said he hadn’t seen him since Sunday. Maybe they were here together. Maybe he saw this woman Cahill left with.”
    “Okay. What are you