"My name isn't Michael Martin. It's Michael Martinez, or it was back then. I was—what, nineteen? I didn't know anything yet."
Old info. Mrs. Lee made no move toward her purse. We watched him and waited for the story to flow.
He ran his hand through his hair. "Ah, shit. I don't know what you want to know. Yeah, I was part of that group—you know, the one Dr. Lee headed with Dr. Ven. I was the only guy, which had its benefits." He grinned, but it dimmed fast. "Too bad they were all nuts."
Mrs. Lee said, "I would like a list of all the group members. That would be worth my while." She slid a notebook and a pen toward him on the table. I glanced at her purse. It was only moderate-sized, but I expected her to pull a tank out of it next.
"Put it on the table first."
She placed the cash, deftly hiding it under her palm, but the flash of red made the denomination clear.
"No. Not where you can grab it back."
She uncovered it and I dropped the sugar bowl over it, leaving my hand over the bowl.
Satisfied, he laid his right hand on the bill and clicked open the pen to scrawl. He was a lefty. "This is what I remember."
I looked over his shoulder. As a doctor, I'm pretty good at deciphering bad handwriting.
Kate
Tracy
Shelley
Sara
Reena
Jodey
My heart rate kicked up. "Wait a minute. Jodi Green?"
He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. We didn't do last names."
"She came with Reena to the emergency room."
"I'm not surprised. They were, uh—" He smirked and glanced at Mrs. Lee. "—good friends."
I'd known Reena was a lesbian, so that didn't surprise me too much. But Jodi as a borderline? That was how they met? Strange.
Mrs. Lee said nothing, but turned her gaze back to the list. She was not amused.
Mike kept writing, but slower now.
Ann
Porsha
"I think that's it. I remember her because her name's like the car, but she made a big deal about how it's spelled different," he said. "But I'd have to think about the others. We had the regulars and then we had the ones who dropped in sometimes. I don't remember them all. Unless they were hot." He smirked some more before filching the $50 from under the sugar bowl.
Mrs. Lee didn't blink, so I took my cue from her and watched him pocket it.
Two seconds later, the Goth girl passed us on the way back from the bathroom, scooping up her coffee. I was glad she hadn't come out when the money was on the table, but it made me nervous that Mrs. Lee had so much cash, and was doling it out in public. No matter how safe the natives claimed Montreal was, it felt like we were begging for a mugging. Not to mention whoever was already targeting me.
Mrs. Lee said, "Okay" and ripped the list off the top of the notebook, folding it neatly in her purse. She took out another $50 and covered it with the sugar bowl, but held her hand over both of them. "That's a good start. Next. Where were you the night of August eighth, 2003?"
I held my breath. My pulse beat in my throat. Oh, God, Mrs. Lee. Around us, dishes clanked and a woman laughed, high and excited, but the moment felt suspended.
Then Mike broke into a smile. "That's worth at least a hundred, don't you think?"
I writhed in my seat. The police could ask him for free. But we still had no evidence, and it was Mrs. Lee's call.
Without breaking eye contact, she reached into her purse and added another $50.
Mike nodded and dropped his hand over the sugar bowl. His fingertips were wide and blunt with old scars over two of his left knuckles. At some point in his life, he'd been a fighter. It would not pay to underestimate him.
Beside me, I sensed Mrs. Lee, too, was holding her breath.
His eerie eyes moved from my face to hers and back again.
Just the waitress returned with his coffee. "Sorry for the wait," she said.
I avoided her eye, hoping she'd take the hint and leave. But Mike said, "Is it fresh?" He slowly ripped open a creamer, stirred it in, and tapped in a little sugar before tasting it. "Coffee's not bad here. Thanks," he said, letting the waitress go. He was enjoying the suspense. He was an actor, all right. But, just as he sensed he was losing me, he handed over the information. "I was bartending."
"What about after the bar closed?" I snapped. Laura was run down after her five-a.m. blade, and Quebec bars close at three.
"It was an after-hours club. I was there 'til seven. Lots of witnesses. Sorry, babe. Oops. I mean Helen." The $100 disappeared with hardly a paper whisper. He did handle cash with a practiced ease. The bartending and acting résumé would explain his plastic charm. We could check up on his story, but I instinctively felt like he was telling the truth. So far.
He scrawled on the notepad, ripped off the page, and handed it to Mrs. Lee with a little flourish. "Here are a few of my buddies who were there."
"Thank you," she said.
I fought not to show my disappointment, mind scrambling for another question. If he was upping the ante so quickly, Mrs. Lee might not be able to afford many more strike-outs.
But Mrs. Lee had her bat at the ready. Her voice was flat, the words evenly spaced and unmistakable. "Who killed my daughter?"