Heather guided Steve into an American-themed sports bar. The bartenders and waitresses wore team jerseys while banks of televisions played a mosaic of all things related to physical contests. Steve leaned into her. “Do you see him?”
“I think it’s him.” She compared the image she’d seen on the internet to the man perched on a barstool. He stared at a screen playing a sports talk show while he picked at the label of a longneck bottle.
“Can we get somewhere where you can watch him for a few minutes?” asked Steve.
Heather took a short step so as not to pull away from him. “There’s a booth that will allow me to see him, and I can tell you what he looks like and how he’s acting.”
Once seated on a red vinyl bench, Heather issued a running commentary. “He’s walking to the restroom. Six-feet-two-inches tall, two hundred forty pounds, dark hair and eyes. He didn’t shave today, and his stomach hangs over his belt. He’s wearing jeans, boots and a knit shirt that’s tucked in. He’s not staggering.”
“Is he a label peeler?”
Heather leaned back. “A what?”
“A label peeler. Is there paper on the bar where he was sitting?”
“What difference does that make?”
Steve let out a huff. “Just stand up and look. I need to know if he’s a serious label peeler.”
Heather stood and, sure enough, a pile of paper lay on the bar. “Yeah, I see wads of paper. So what?”
“He drinks often, and a lot,” said Steve with a nod of his head. “Fools on stools tend to undress their bottles. It’s a sign they’re malcontent and lazy.”
Heather didn’t know whether to believe him or not. She’d challenged more than one of his unique observations of human behavior only to be the recipient of Steve’s barbs when what he said proved to be accurate. She placed her palms on the table and leaned forward. “I suppose you have a doctorate in beer-ology?”
The corners of his mouth pulled upward. “A masters.” He stroked his chin like he’d grown a goatee that required grooming. “Let’s put my label-peeler theory to the test. I’ll bet you a dollar Dirk Stewart is unemployed and believes it’s not his fault.”
“That’s too general. How are you measuring lazy and malcontent?”
“You’re right. I’ll bet you that dollar he’s unemployed, he hasn’t worked for over three months, and he blames someone else for him losing his last job.”
Heather lowered her chin. “You already researched this guy. Leo gave you information on him.”
Steve held up three fingers on his right hand. “Scout’s honor. I’m basing this bet on my experience with bottle peelers.”
“You’re on. Here he comes. I’ll bring him over.”
Steve made room for Heather on his side of the booth, and Dirk sat opposite the two detectives. Dirk whistled loud enough for all eyes to shift to their table. He held up three fingers.
A deep baritone voice carried Dirk’s words. “The cops I talked to this morning told me you two would be by. What took you so long?”
Steve answered. “Ms. McBlythe went to work out and I needed a nap. By the shake of your hand you’ve done some working out. That’s quite a grip.”
Heather didn’t notice anything special about the man’s physique, but Dirk puffed out his chest at Steve’s compliment.
“You should have seen me before I wrecked my knee.”
“Playing football, I bet,” replied Steve.
“Yeah, a cheap shot took away my future. It didn’t even draw a flag. Couldn’t have come at a worse time. I was being looked at by some D-1 schools. Just my luck.”
The waitress arrived. Dirk put the bottle to his lips and tilted it back. After a full swallow he settled the bottle and began to peel the label.
“Did that put an end to your college classes, too?” asked Steve.
“I went another semester before Michelle came up pregnant.”
“You had to throw away some dreams, didn’t you?”
His gaze shifted from the bottle. “Darn right I did. I had it figured out. Play ball, earn a degree and coach on the college level. Everything went down the toilet, and all because she forgot to get a refill on a packet of pills.”
Heather gritted her teeth. She’d gladly forfeit the dollar not to hear any more whining. Time to change the subject. “Mr. Stewart, what did you think when Mr. Yancy invited you and your wife to come a day early to the reunion?”
He looked down, inhaled an oversized breath and released it in a rush. “At first I didn’t want to come.”
“Why not?” asked Steve.
Dirk’s nostrils flared. “He wanted to rub my nose in his money. He was a little dweeb in high school. He got lucky and hit it big with my wife’s invention. He didn’t give us a penny for the work she did.”
“Are you saying it was your wife’s invention?” asked Steve.
“She helped a lot, both in high school and later.”
“It sounds like you think your wife should be sharing the profits.”
“She should. Heck, we both should. I put Michelle through college. She wouldn’t be a physics teacher if it weren’t for me, and that stupid charger wouldn’t have been invented if it weren’t for her.”
“If you hated Victor, why did you come to the reunion?” asked Heather.
Dirk held his beer bottle as if to give a toast. “Here’s to Victor Yancy. This weekend may be the only chance I’ll ever have to get anything out of him. I’m going to milk it for all I can.”
Steve played along and put his bottle to his lips. He set it back on the table with the level in the bottle the same. “By the way, Mr. Stewart, did you hear a scream when Mr. Yancy fell to his death?”
His laugh held no humor. “Not hardly. I came to this bar and lined up six shots of tequila as soon as I was sure Victor had made arrangements to pay the tab. By eleven o’clock Michelle had poured me into bed. I’m pacing myself today so I can go long into the night.”
Steve nudged Heather so they could leave but stopped before he made it out of the booth. “You should be in good enough shape for work on Monday, no matter what you do the next two days.”
“That’s a laugh. The company I worked for downsized six months ago, and I didn’t have seniority.”
Heather slipped the dollar bill into Steve’s hand as soon as they exited the bar.
“Easiest money I ever earned,” he said.
“Shut up. I need a shower.”
He chuckled until Heather whispered, “A man is walking toward us. He looks like a plainclothes cop. We’ll intercept him halfway across the atrium.