“You were pissed off about one thing or another.”

“There’s always something…”

“Anyway, I’m glad you came,” Winter said. “I need you more than ever.” He filled two small cups, put them on the table and sat down across from Bolger. He seems uptight about something, Winter thought. He hasn’t aged much since high school-as long as you don’t look too closely, that is. “What have you found out?” he asked.

“Apparently Jamie was a popular guy, but that’s true of most bar-tenders.”

“At least early in the evening.”

Bolger sipped his coffee. “This tastes like melted asphalt.”

“Then I succeeded.”

“Am I supposed to chew on it or something?”

“You got it.”

“When you work at a bar, you’re surrounded by people who aren’t your friends exactly but they think of you as one of them.”

“I see.”

“Casual acquaintances, but something more.”

“Jamie must have had other friends too.”

“A couple of boyfriends.” Bolger took another sip.

“So it’s true?”

“That’s what they say. Or Douglas, rather, the guy who runs the place. No specific evidence or anything, but it’s not the kind of thing you can hide. He gave me a couple of names. I brought them with me in case you need them.” He took out his wallet, unfolded a slip of paper and handed it to Winter.

“Thanks.”

“They’re both around the same age as he was,” Bolger said.

“Hmm.”

“Fags, I would assume.”

“Okay.”

“I have no idea if they’re the violent kind.”

Winter committed the names to memory, put the slip of paper in his breast pocket and sipped his coffee like bitter medicine that you take for no apparent reason. “How have other restaurant owners been reacting to all this?”

“It’s a rather unpleasant affair, of course, but nothing to get all riled up about.”

“I understand.”

“It’s not like he went and got himself murdered because he was a bartender.”

“No.”

“Somebody has too little brandy in his Lumumba, racks his brain about how to get back at the barkeep and finally takes his revenge.”

“Perhaps I chose the safer occupation after all.”

“Or a martini that isn’t dry enough, or shaken instead of stirred.”

Or maybe as thick as this coffee, Winter thought. My spoon can almost stand straight up in it.

“At my place, we let some ice settle in the vermouth for a while,” Bolger said. “Then we drain the glass and put the ice in the gin.”

“Somebody might call that stinginess.”

“Our customers call it style.”

Johan has never been very good at wearing a poker face, Winter thought. Or maybe too good.

“Do you think somebody in the restaurant industry could have done it?” Bolger asked.

“You know I never speculate.”

“But it’s possible, right?”

“Anything’s possible, and that complicates matters, doesn’t it?”

“Do you want me to ask around some more?”

“Definitely; I need all the help I can get.”

“ Douglas said something about having seen a new face several times at his bar recently,” Bolger volunteered. “He said that he usually notices when someone comes back a second or third time.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s hard to remember entire groups, but if somebody shows up alone often enough, it tends to stick in your mind.”

“Was there something unusual about this particular customer?” Winter asked.

“That’s basically all he had to say.”

“I’ve read all the witness statements, but Douglas didn’t mention anything about that when we talked to him.”

“I guess you’ll have to ask him again.”

“Right.”

“A little footwork for the chief investigator.”

Winter reached for the espresso machine. “More coffee?”

BERGENHEM HAD ASKED HlMSELF MORE THAN ONCE WHY HE had been assigned to the county criminal investigation unit. It wasn’t his decision, or maybe it was, after all-they knew perfectly well what he wanted to do. He had no interest in the narcotics, technical or white-collar crime divisions, and larceny didn’t have nearly the same appeal. Violence was tangible and concrete-dirty business committed by people who were settling private scores, however bizarre.

It wasn’t until the victims were wholly innocent-when one side held all the power, when children lay on stretchers and faced a lifelong disability-that his job began to trouble him. Three-year-old girls who would never see again, six-year-old boys who kicked soccer balls one day and were beaten black and blue by their fathers the next.

He wasn’t going to become thick-skinned. He wanted to be just the opposite, a warrior battling all the odds.

Bergenhem buried his face in Martina’s hair until he could scarcely breathe. They had been married a year now, and she was eight months pregnant. Their child would be kicking a soccer ball before they knew it. Bergenhem would play goalie.

An inspector almost straight out of the National Police Academy. He felt as if he had won some kind of award but had no idea what for. He was promising material, someone had said. Material for what?

The first few weeks had been particularly lonely. He had been a little shy at the academy, and making his mark among forty other inspectors at Homicide-or the thirty who weren’t in the wanted-persons group-was an even more daunting challenge. He didn’t really understand why they were keeping him on Winter’s team as the investigation went forward.

He had his assignment, and he knew that his position was secure even if it took a while before things started to happen. Something always happened, eventually. That was Winter’s mantra. Nothing stands still, everything flows-but better a deceptive calm than chasing your tail without ever getting anyplace.

Loneliness. He recoiled from the jargon of his profession, and he wasn’t cynical enough to learn it-not yet, at least. He couldn’t simply laugh off the misery he encountered, and that made him feel like a square peg in a round hole.

He noticed that Winter rarely smiled. Winter wasn’t a square peg in a round hole, and he didn’t laugh at the wrong times like Halders was in the habit of doing, or even Ringmar every once in a while.

Bergenhem admired Winter and wanted to be like him but didn’t think it would ever happen. It wasn’t Winter’s style-his elegance or whatever you wanted to call it-that Bergenhem craved for himself. That quality ran deeper in Winter than in others, sure, but it was his toughness that struck Bergenhem. An iron fist in a velvet glove. Winter was surrounded by an aura of stern concentration, and when he worked, his features shifted but his gaze remained steady. Maybe he let his guard down when he was off the job, but Bergenhem didn’t see him then.

There were all kinds of rumors about Winter and women, that he used them to relieve the pressures of his job. He had a reputation that would have been devastating if he weren’t a man. But the rumors all had to do with the past, and Bergenhem suspected that Winter had learned to be more discreet in his erotic adventures. He didn’t really give a damn one way or the other. Winter meant something else to him altogether.

Where will you be in twelve or thirteen years? The aroma of Martina’s hair filled his lungs. Will you be lying here and brooding over the same thoughts about the world around you? Some people walk in worn-out shoes. How many more will be destitute in twelve or thirteen years?

“What are you thinking about?”

Martina turned over on her side, a little clumsily, supporting herself on her right elbow and lifting her left leg. He ran his hand over her belly. It stuck out like one of those orange cones they used during soccer practice. He didn’t play soccer anymore. His coach had said that he hoped Bergenhem had learned his lesson and would be more careful in other areas of his life.