Tracks of Her Tears by Melinda Leigh

had footage of Samantha and her boyfriend arguing on the parking lot surveillance video. They’d gone to the bar in separate cars. She drove off. He left a couple of minutes later. No one ever saw her again.”
    “I was still working on the task force two months ago, but I must have seen a piece of the video.” Seth pondered the similarities between the two cases. “Who’s handling the Lyle case?”
    “Detective Summers, but he’s out of town this week,” Phil said.
    “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The fact that both girls had been at Fletcher’s could be a coincidence. There are only two bars in town. For now we’ll just keep that on the back burner.” Though Seth might call Summers in the morning. He stood and reached for his jacket. “Let’s go see Bob.”
    They drove out to Fletcher’s. Seth remembered the black paint on the rear end of Bruce’s van as they got into the patrol car. “What does Bob drive?”
    Phil tilted the laptop on the console toward himself and hit a few keys. “Bob Fletcher drives a black 1991 Ford F-150.”
    “There was black paint on Bruce’s bumper.”
    At nine p.m. on a weeknight, the lot was nearly full. Snow continued to fall as Seth and Phil crossed the pavement. Seth zipped his jacket against the bitter wind, thankful that they’d found Bruce. That space blanket wouldn’t have kept him alive another night. They walked around to the back of the bar but didn’t see a black pickup truck. Inside, the bar was busy. With no band playing, music blared from an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner. Customers gave Phil’s uniform the stink-eye. More than one bar patron put down his drink and indiscreetly slipped out. Bob wasn’t behind the bar. Seth leaned across the scarred wood and shouted at the burly bartender, “Where’s Bob?”
    He raised a fully tatted arm to point at the back hallway. “Office.”
    Seth gave him a wave of thanks, and he and Phil picked their way around the room. Glad to be in the hallway, where the music was somewhat muffled, Seth knocked on the door labeled “Office.”
    “Come,” someone shouted.
    Seth opened the door. Bob sat behind a messy desk. He looked surprised—and not too happy to see them.
    “Detective Harding. I didn’t expect to see you.” Bob waved at a chair in front of his desk. “What can I do for you?”
    Phil stood back and leaned on the wall.
    Seth took the chair. “I’d like to talk about last night.”
    “I’ve already told you everything I remember.” Bob leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
    “Oh really.” Seth raised a brow. “You forgot to mention that you had a confrontation with Amber Lynn.”
    “It wasn’t a big deal.” Bob shrugged.
    Seth leaned forward and held his gaze. “If it wasn’t a big deal, why didn’t you tell me?”
    Bob blinked away. “I can’t prove anything, so I didn’t want to say anything bad about the girl.”
    “What can’t you prove?” Seth could see the lies churning in Bob’s eyes.
    “I saw her swipe tip money off one of the tables.” Bob’s chair squeaked as he shifted his weight. “I confronted her about it, but Bruce got all pissy. I decided ten or twenty bucks wasn’t worth the hassle.”
    Especially money that belonged to a waitress and not him, thought Seth.
    “Where’s your pickup?” Seth asked.
    “At home. Rear-wheel drive is terrible in the snow. I had my bartender pick me up today.” Bob had an answer for everything.
    Seth would drive by his house later to see if his pickup had any dents. For now Seth changed tactics. “Do you remember Samantha Lyle?”
    Bob paled. “Who?”
    He knew damn well who. “Samantha Lyle, the young woman who went missing two months ago after being in your bar.”
    Bob rubbed the tarantula tattoo. “I remember being asked about her and handing over the surveillance tapes, but I didn’t know the girl. She was just a customer.” But beads of sweat popped out on his bald head. “Why?”
    “No reason.”