Claw Back

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He hadn’t been inside in a long time.

It was as dark as he remembered, and it smelled as bad. O’Sullivan’s was a cop bar. Located a block from the Fort Myers police station, it had the feel of a married guy’s den. Stale smoky air, cigarette burns on the tables, rows of trophies, a floor of crushed peanut shells and a big-screen TV permanently tuned to ESPN.

Like all primitive habitats, it had a pecking order. City detectives had staked out the back of the bar; county detectives, out of legendary necessity, owned the tables by the men’s room so they could piss and moan more conveniently; the round tables in the middle belonged to the rank and file uniforms.

And in the back, by the juke box, sat Lance Mobley. Arms spread across the back of the booth, perched under a Happy Birthday banner, he looked like a king on a red leather throne.

Louis Kincaid waited until his eyes adjusted before he started back. He needed to see everything clearly right now because this wasn’t going to be easy.

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