And Leave Her Lay Dying by John Lawrence Reynolds Page B

about a dummy like him?” she mumbled from the window. “Good riddance to the son of a bitch. That’s what I say. Same thing to you. Good riddance. Just get the hell out and mind your own business.”
    He closed the door behind him, leaving her by the window, blinking up at the sky.
    The snow had turned to sleet again as McGuire walked to the rear of the building.
    Each apartment opened to a wooden landing and fire escape leading to an alleyway running parallel with the street. He stared up at the second-floor rear apartment for several minutes. It told him nothing, so he walked back to the Agassiz Street bridge with his shoulders hunched against the wind, glancing briefly down at the site of Jennifer Cornell’s murder as he crossed the Fens. The light had faded, turning the world to a still deeper shade of grey. At the end of Westland Street he walked north to Massachusetts, losing himself in the crowds of office workers rushing to the subway.
    Another block and he was across the street from the rustic barn-board façade of Pour Richards. He dodged a bus, cursed at a cab that sprayed him with slush, and ducked into the warmth of the bar.
    Inside, McGuire stood in the doorway while his eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light. To his left were tables with mismatched chairs. The bar itself ran along the right wall, extending into blackness at the rear of the room where a rock singer screamed from a hidden jukebox.
    He chose a corner table and ordered chili and a Kronenbourg from a middle-aged waitress, then sat and watched the crowd of after-hours office workers who were enjoying a quick relaxer before heading for home. Men and women stood three-deep at the bar, laughing, shouting, ignoring the snowy image on the wall-mounted television set.
    When the chili arrived it was fiery hot and thick, with chunks of stringy beef. By the time McGuire finished, most of the after-work crowd had departed. The waitress brought his check.
    â€œAnything else?” she asked in a lazy drawl. Her hair, bleached and dyed to the colour of pineapple, was swept up on her head; a few strands had escaped and dangled over her eyes.
    â€œWho owns this place?” McGuire asked.
    â€œYou a cop?” the waitress replied.
    McGuire said as a matter of fact he was.
    â€œWe breaking any laws here?”
    â€œNot as far as I can tell,” McGuire said, smiling. “Just curious to know who the owner might be.”
    â€œMarlene,” she replied. “Over there,” and she jerked her head in the direction of the bar where a woman leaned against the cash register, her arms folded across her ample chest. McGuire dropped some money on the table and crossed the room to the bar, sliding onto an empty stool in front of the owner. “You Marlene Richards?” he asked.
    The woman turned and studied him carefully. She apparently liked what she saw because a broad smile began to spread across her face and continued to grow wider while she spoke, in a voice whose edges were frayed by smoke and whisky. “That’s me, sweetie. Somebody send you looking for me?”
    â€œKind of.” McGuire returned the smile.
    â€œHope they gave me a good recommendation.” She stepped forward, rested her elbows on the bar and looked coyly into McGuire’s eyes. “’Course, all my recommendations are good.” He could smell her perfume, heavy and sweet. “Who did the favour, sent you looking for me?”
    â€œGuy called Andrew Cornell,” McGuire replied.
    The smile froze and she straightened up, tilted her head at him and asked “Who the fuck are you?”
    â€œHe’s a cop.” The waitress had followed McGuire to the bar after clearing his table. Now she looked at him with distaste, stuck out her bottom lip and blew a few tendrils of hair away from her face.
    â€œNothing wrong with entertaining a cop,” Marlene Richards said. “Sometimes get a few of them in here for a