I knew Billy ate his last omelet there yesterday morning. There were three omelets on the rumpled ticket I found. Two coffees and one hot chocolate. The hot chocolate would go to Halah, Cristina’s fifteen-year-old daughter. Cocoa is nice. But coffee is a lifeline. I was betting Billy’s client ate breakfast close to her hotel. And if she didn’t know Bill was gone, she could be at Belle’s now. Or at one of the hotels nearby. I had to find her before her psycho boss did. I took a quick detour that would take me by Tierney’s Irish Pub. When we were kids, Grandpa DeLuca told stories about this once tough Chicago neighborhood, back when rich mobsters were local heroes and people went missing in the night. Bridgeport has softened since then. The meat-packing district has been converted to trendy restaurants and apartments. But as far as I was concerned, at least one monster remained. I drove past the pub slowly while squinting in the window.
