Deadly Games. Steve Frech

About the Publisher

       To my HQ family and especially you, Abigail;

       Thank you.

       Chapter 1

      My phone pings with a text.

      I’m not going to answer it. Not even going to look.

      When you’re being led by a detective down a hall at a police station to be interviewed, it’s not the time to respond to what is probably a message from your boss, asking you to come in twenty minutes early for your shift tomorrow.

      At the end of the hall, Detective Mendez motions to an open door and I step inside.

      The walls are painted cinderblock. The floor is concrete.

      In the middle of the room is a metal table with metal chairs on either side. There’s a file resting on the corner of the table.

      “Again, I’d like to thank you for coming in and talking to me,” Detective Mendez says, following me into the room. “Please, have a seat.”

      He indicates the chair on the other side of the table, away from the file.

      “Of course.” The confusion in my voice is genuine as I ease myself into the chair.

      He comfortably lowers himself into the chair on the other side of the table.

      “I’ll try to make this as quick as I can. We’re just asking some questions, trying to get an overall picture of things.”

      “Okay.” I nod. “Um, what things?”

      He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together.

      “How well do you know Emily Parker?”

      How well do I know Emily Parker?

      I know everything about her, the same way I know everything about a lot of people. I know their name, their birthday, their kids’ names, where they live, where they work. I know when they get that big promotion. I know how they feel about that cute coworker they haven’t told their spouse about. I know when things are bad at home. Hell, I know when people are on antibiotics. I know all this stuff because they tell it to me; freely, willingly, because everyone wants to be my friend, even though they don’t know a thing about me.

      They tell me all these things because I’m their bartender.

      Of course, with Emily Parker, it’s a little more complicated but I sort of knew this was coming.

      Katie, my coworker, was interviewed earlier this morning by Detective Mendez and as I pulled into the parking lot of the police station, she texted me the heads-up that they had asked her about Emily. She said she didn’t know why they were asking, but that she had kept me out of it; a fact I very much appreciated.

      “Mr. Davis?” Detective Mendez asks from the other side of the table.

      There are some things about Emily and I that I’d rather not discuss and I know she feels the same way. I need to buy a little more time so I can figure out what’s going on and talk to Emily.

      Luckily, I have the training to bullshit all day, if need be.

      “You can call me Clay.”

      “Your ID says that your name is Franklin Davis.”

      “Yeah, but everyone calls me Clay. In my business, you make a lot more in tips with a cool name. I found that out when I worked at one of those corporate chains where you have to wear a nametag and like, buttons with witty sayings, you know? Well, one day, I forgot my nametag, so I had to wear a spare one we had in the office. For one shift, my name was ‘Clay’, and you wouldn’t believe how much more in tips I made that day. So, I decided to stick with it.”

      “That’s really interesting,” Detective Mendez says, dryly, while making a note on his pad.

      “Thanks.”

      I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. He’s got this perfectly neutral, bulldog expression and while bulldogs look kind of dumb, you’re pretty sure they could rip your arm off if they felt so inclined.

      “Do you often do that?” he asks.

      “Do what?”

      “Lie to people.”

      Is he being serious? What is happening, right now?

      “It’s just a work thing.” I shrug.

      He makes another note and looks up from his pad.

      “So, Mr. Davis … I’m sorry, Clay,” Detective Mendez says, maybe sincerely. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

      “I’m sorry. What was the question?”

      “How did you know Emily Parker?”

      “Well, she’s a regular at my bar. She comes in from time to time. She’s one of my best regulars, actually— Wait … Wait. What do you mean ‘how did I know Emily Parker’?”

      Detective Mendez gets a slight, pained expression and his eyes inadvertently glance at the file resting on the table.

      “Mr. Davis, we’re just asking some questions and we know that she was at the bar two nights ago,” he says, trying to be reassuring.

      “No. What did you mean by that?” I can’t help the worry that finds its way into my tone. “Has something happened to her?”

      “Mr. Davis, I’m not sure it’s the right time—”

      “Please. Tell me, did something happen to her?”

      Detective Mendez sighs, reaches over, flips open the file, takes out a photo, and slides it in front of me. And then another. And another.

      At first, I can’t process what I’m seeing. Then, it becomes clear. The horror sets in and bile climbs up my throat.

      This can’t be real. It can’t be, but it is.

      Oh my god.

      Cold beads of sweat pop from my forehead. My heart is slamming into my chest.

      Detective Mendez leans forward further.

      “Mr. Davis … Clay … How did you know Emily Parker?”

      Let me back this up to that night.

      “Goose martini. Filthy. One olive!” Mr. Collins calls over the din of the crowd.

      “You got it.”

      Good. He’s in a chipper mood. Things must be going better at home.

      Mr. Collins, a retired fifty-something aerospace engineering consultant, has been coming to The Gryphon for years. A filthy Goose martini was his standard drink and I used to start making it the second I saw him walk through the door, but for the past few weeks, he’s been drinking cheap scotch, neat. He and his wife have been having problems. He’s never told me this, directly, but it’s obvious to me. He’s been down, quiet, and the times he’s come into The Gryphon recently, he goes outside whenever he gets a phone call. He doesn’t want anyone to hear him, which is what you do when it’s personal. On slow nights, I’ve watched him through the window while he was on the phone. The body language, the pleading posture, all point to problems at home. This is the kind of stuff you notice when you work behind the bar; the stuff that you as a patron don’t realize you’re doing, but your bartender sees all of it. And if Mr. Collins is back to his favorite drink, that means he’s happy, which means I’m happy, because he’ll be tipping big.

      I head to the well and start working on his martini.

      My