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be just like him to not show up, after talking me into it.”
    Mendez laughed. “I guess we know who not to call if we need backup.”
    “Hey,” Conley said, “don’t talk like that.” He took the tone of a stern but understanding parent. “Cunningham’s a good man.”
      Sergeant David Conley lacked the formal education to move up in the department, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He was happy where he was and, Elliot suspected, about as close to the quintessential cop as you were likely to get.
    He tapped Conley on the back. “Take it easy. Mendez didn’t mean it like that.”
    Conley made some sarcastic remark, and Mendez winked and leaned even farther back in his chair. After a bit more small talk around the table, the conversation began to split up, the cops drifting into smaller groups of two or three.
    Elliot had the John Doe case on his mind but it was Conley who brought it up. “Do you suppose that poor sap back at Windhall had a soul?”
    Conley said this with a smirk, feigning sarcasm, but Elliot knew he was referring to the strange symbol he and Dombrowski had seen scratched onto the surface of the table in apartment 3. Turned out it was something called a Baphomet. Conley’s question would stick with Elliot, working heavy on his mind throughout the night. He had no answer to it, and it disturbed him that he did not. “At least you noticed it,” Elliot said. “Dombrowski didn’t give it a second thought.”
    Conley rubbed his chin. “Don’t be so sure about that. Let me tell you something about Bill Dombrowski. He’s a smart man, and not a bad guy to know. You would do well to get on his good side. Don’t let that I-don’t-know-much, Colombo act of his fool you. You think he didn’t notice something, ask him about it. He doesn’t miss much.”
    Dombrowski’s apparent lack of interest in the case concerned Elliot, but he trusted Conley, and he valued his judgment. “What’s your take on it?”
    Conley shook his head. “What’s an old street cop like me know? You weren’t taking anything at face value, though. I could see that and I’m proud of you for it. Don’t worry. Dombrowski’ll nail it. He has a way of doing that. Might help if the preliminary theories didn’t make it on the news, though.” He gave Elliot a measured look then lifted his glass.
    Elliot took it as the guidance it was meant to be. “Yes sir.”
    The conversation stopped for a moment. Elliot looked up to see Detective Cunningham coming into the bar. But something beyond that had changed in the room, as if the barometric pressure had taken a nosedive, leaving in its wake a vacuum, a miniature black hole, which drew in all that was around it, leaving the inside of the bar, for a brief moment, completely silent and void of movement.
    Cunningham was not alone but was escorted by a woman, the like of which Elliot had not often seen. She and Cunningham made their way toward the group of cops, slowing occasionally to exchange a word or two with acquaintances, but keeping a steady course toward Conley and Elliot. Elliot saw in the expression of Cunningham’s date a look of apprehension, as if she recognized him, not as an old friend, but rather as someone she hadn’t expected to see.
    Moments later, the couple arrived, stopping only a few feet away. Elliot forced himself to look at Cunningham and no one else, but still he imagined the heat of Cunningham’s jealousy upon him.
    “Hey, Elliot. Glad you could make it.”
    Elliot silently prayed that the pair in front of him would simply turn and walk away, but instead Cunningham said, “Cyndi, this is Kenny Elliot, one of the guys I work with.”
    Cunningham introduced the lady as Cyndi Bannister, whereupon she extended her hand, smiling as she ran her fingers through her blonde hair. Elliot knew that touching her would be a mistake, but he ignored his instincts and did so anyway, feeling her warmth course through him, as he’d feared it would. He knew only, too