Morphy parked the prowl car in a shaded lot on the edge of the Hollows. Some kids played a makeshift game of baseball on the far side of the lot, their voices pitched high and boisterous. Broken glass in the lot caught the sun and looked like a thousand multicolored fireflies.
Morphy and Grip pulled the grease paper from sandwiches they’d picked up at a deli that catered to cops and pried the caps from two cone-tops of beer. They ate in silence, half-watching the kids. Crows on the periphery of the game shrieked at the players. The police radio in the prowl car squawked in the background. They’d both developed that cop sense to process noise from the radio subconsciously, becoming alert when some word or phrase tipped them that it was relevant. This time they didn’t need the sense. The radio dispatcher used Grip’s name.
“Shit,” Grip said, looking at the half of his sandwich that remained. He downed the rest of his beer and leaned through the open window for the mike.
“This is Grip.” He released the talk button and belched, giving Morphy a half grin.
The dispatcher’s voice came with a hail of static. “That shithole bar you drink at?”
“Yeah?”
“Owner asked for you. Wants you to swing by, you get a chance.” “You know what about?”
“That’s all I got.”
“Okay.” Grip tossed the mike onto the car seat. To Morphy he said, “We’ve got to swing by Crippen’s.”
Morphy finished his beer and tossed the can over his shoulder. “What about?”
Grip shrugged. An altercation started across the field at the baseball game, two kids grappling while the others formed a circle around them, cheering them on.
Grip felt better now with a couple of beers in him and Wayne located, albeit in the hospital. He needed more information on that, but at least Wayne wasn’t still missing.
Crippen’s didn’t have official hours and there were times, such as this, when it was open but not really functioning. A couple of older guys, serious boozers, were lighting into tall glasses of whiskey and ice. The bartender washed glasses behind the bar, listening to the usual static and bile coming from the radio. Morphy waited by the door.
The bartender saw Grip coming and dried his hands on a cloth. “I figured you’d keep me waiting.”
Grip gave him a sour look. “What’s the rumble? I’m on duty.”
“Don’t smell like it.” The bartender went to the register and opened the drawer, still talking. “You know how I came in yesterday and found those specs with the shot glass and feathers and all that?”
“Yeah?”
The bartender returned with something in his hand. “There was something waiting for me today, too.”
Grip opened his arms impatiently. “You going to show me, or what?” The bartender laid a police badge on the bar. Grip tapped it around with his finger so that it was facing him.
“Jesus.”
Morphy was beside him now. “That your buddy Wayne’s?”
“Yeah.”
Morphy asked the bartender, “Did he leave it here last night or something?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think so. Check the other side.”
Morphy picked it up and flipped it over. “Yeah?”
“You gotta get the light to hit it right.”
Morphy moved it around a little until he got the proper angle and then it was visible. Someone had etched a crude skull and top hat into the back.