McCabe had been warned that the Laughing Toad would be jammed even at midnight, and the warnings were accurate. He and Maggie pushed their way through the doors and approached the hostess desk.
“Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe,” he said to the young woman manning the station, practically shouting to be heard. He flashed his gold badge without giving her much chance to see the words Portland, Maine. “And this is Detective Margaret Savage. Could you tell me who the hostess was last night from about eleven o’clock on?”
“Is there some problem, Officer?”
“A woman who ate here last night has been reported missing. We just need to talk to whoever was most likely to get a look at the people who were coming in around that time.”
“Eleven last night? I guess that would have been me.” A plastic name tag identified her as Brianna. “Also possibly James, the blond guy over there, tending bar. He worked last night as well.”
“How about the other two working the bar?” Maggie asked.
“They weren’t scheduled last night.”
“What’s your last name, Brianna?” asked McCabe.
“Jespersen. Brianna Jespersen.”
“Let’s start with you. Is there anywhere a little quieter where we can talk?”
“Nowhere really quiet but there’s a small office at the back behind the kitchen. That’s probably best. Let me see if I can find someone to take over the front. I’ll be right back.”
Maggie and McCabe scanned the crowd. Mostly young. Mostly attractive. And almost everyone trying their damnedest to appear cool or hip or whatever word twenty-somethings were using these days. McCabe’s vocabulary hadn’t kept up with the times.
Brianna came back after a couple of minutes with another young woman in tow. “Okay, Kelly here can take over for a little while. We won’t be long, will we?”
“Shouldn’t be.”
“Okay, follow me.”
The three of them inched their way through the crowd past the back of the bar. Then past the kitchen and the restrooms. At the far end was a door that said No Admittance. Brianna pushed it open and led them into a small office space no bigger than a walk-in closet. Just a desk, a chair and a computer.
Brianna flipped on the light “Okay, what’s going on?”
McCabe showed her a photo of Zoe on his iPhone. “Do you remember seeing this woman in here last night?”
Brianna’s response was instantaneous. “Yeah. She was here.”
“You’re sure?” asked Maggie. “There must be two or three hundred people here now.”
“Yeah, and it’s midnight on a Monday. There were a lot more than that when she came in Sunday after eleven. I don’t know her name but I see her in here fairly often. She was with a different guy last night than the other times I’ve seen her. Anyway, she joined this new guy at a table so he must have made a reservation. Without a reservation there’s no way you get a table.”
“So you should be able to find the name of the guy she was with?” asked Maggie.
“Yeah. Yeah, if he made the reservation under his own name we should. All the reservations go into our computer. We should have a phone number for him too. We always confirm a rez the afternoon it’s for.”
Brianna moved behind the desk, opened up the computer, and started tapping some keys. “I remember the table they were sitting at so I can cross-check. Okay. Here it is. The rez was made for eleven o’clock under the name Nichols. Luke Nichols. Number’s 212-555-9374. E-mail is L_Nichols@gmail.com. Can you tell me what’s going on? Did this guy do something wrong?”
McCabe showed her the sketches Randall Carter and Richard Mooney had helped Astarita’s computer artist produce. “Does this look like Luke Nichols?”
“No. Not at all,” she said almost instantly. “Totally different face.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“So you never saw this guy before?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“What are you saying?” asked Maggie.
Brianna squinted at it for a minute. “A guy who looks a lot like this sketch came in a little after the woman did. Big dude. Very good-looking. Came in, I don’t know, maybe 11:20.”
McCabe showed her a still shot from the street video. “This look like him?”
“That’s him. Wearing the same clothes he had on last night.”
“Did he have a reservation?”
“No. He just came in and went over to the bar.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“How long was he here?” asked McCabe.
“Maybe half an hour. Actually not even that. In fact, he left shortly after the woman and this Luke Nichols guy left. I noticed ’cause he stood by the door for a couple of minutes before he left like he was waiting for something.”
“Was he alone?”
“Seemed to be. Came in alone. Left alone. Don’t know if he talked to anyone while he was here except maybe for the bartender. What’s going on? Is he a criminal or something?”
McCabe ignored Brianna’s question. “The bartender’s name is James?”
“Yeah. He’s the blond guy working the far end of the bar.”
Not wanting to interview James in the middle of the crowd surrounding the bar, McCabe asked Brianna if she could send James back to the office.
“Sure. No problem.”
Brianna left and a couple of minutes later, one of the most beautiful men either Maggie or McCabe had ever seen, at least outside of men’s fashion magazines, appeared at the office door. Beautiful or not he appeared nervous. “You the police officers?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Maggie. “You’re James?”
“That’s right. James Nielson. What do you need?”
“I’m Detective Margaret Savage. My partner and I just want to ask you about a customer you might have served at the bar last night. Around eleven-fifteen or so. A big guy about thirty. Might have been wearing an army-style field jacket.”
“I think I know who you’re talking about.”
“Here’s a sketch of him,” Maggie said, holding it up for him.
James angled his head to one side and then to the other as he looked at the sketch. “Yeah. That’s him. He’s actually better-looking than that. But whoever made the sketch got the shape of the face about right. And the nose. A really good artist would have captured more.”
“More like what?”
“I don’t know. Just that there was a nerviness about him. Like he was on fire the whole time he was here. Sketch doesn’t capture that.”
Interesting, thought Maggie. This guy James was a whole lot more observant than most people would have been.
“He ordered a double bourbon. Bulleit’s. Paid cash for it. Hung around for about twenty minutes or so, then took off without finishing it. His first name’s Tyler. I don’t know his last.”
“How do you know his name at all if he paid cash?” asked McCabe.
James gave the two cops a shy smile. “I peeked.” He said it like a little kid who’d been caught stealing a cookie.
“You peeked?”
“Yeah. I peeked at his drivers’ license when he opened his wallet to pay for the drink. Saw his first name on the license. His thumb was covering up the last name so I couldn’t see that. But his first name is definitely Tyler.”
“Tyler not Taylor?”
“Yup. Tyler. T-Y-L-E-R.”
“Why did you peek?”
James shrugged. “I’m gay. And this guy was definitely a hunk. I was hoping he might be interested in hooking up.”
“Did he look like he might be gay?” asked Maggie.
“He was a good-looking dude. I got a sense he might be. And that he might be interested. Turned out not. I figure he could be one of those guys who can’t just admit their own sexual identity. Fight it their whole lives. Keep trying to be macho dudes. Tragic, if you ask me.”
“Did you notice if it was a New York state license?” asked McCabe.
James furrowed his brow and pressed his index finger against his cheek in an overly dramatic show of trying to remember. “I think it was a New York license. I know what they look like. I have a Missouri one myself. But I’m pretty sure his was New York. Why? Is he some kind of criminal?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Thanks for your help.”
James smiled and shrugged. “No prob.”
The three of them left the small office. James returned to the bar.
Maggie and McCabe worked their way through the mass of bodies and the din of voices that filled the Laughing Toad and headed out through the glass doors and onto the relative quiet of Rivington Street.
He asked Maggie to call Luke Nichols and set up an interview. While she was doing that, he punched in the number for the head of the task force’s IT team.
A guy who was doing night duty, named Tom Delgado, answered. “What do you need?” he asked.
“We need to know how many men named Tyler . . .”
“First name or last?”
“First. How many Tylers live in New York State and hold New York driver’s licenses.”
“You just want numbers? Or names and addresses?”
“Not just numbers.” McCabe explained what they’d learned from the bartender James. “We’re gonna need facsimiles of all New York licenses belonging to guys named Tyler. Flag any that own black SUV’s. And when we get that info, we’re going to need a team to sit down and separate all the ones between ages of say twenty and forty and then cross-check the photos against a couple of photos and a sketch we have. Pick out all the ones that are even close to a likeness.”
“Jeesh. You don’t want much, do ya? There’s got to be thousands of them.”
“Gotta be done. Like now. This Tyler guy is likely our killer.”
“I get it. Don’t worry. We’ll get it done. Hopefully have what you need by tomorrow.”