Bodies in Winter by Robert Knightly

door. They included, among their number, Nydia Santiago. Nydia had once described my partner as ‘Martha Stewart with a badge.’
    The Sparkle’s owner, Michael Blair, had a Dewar’s and water awaiting me by the time I reached the bar. Blair was in his early fifties, a former detective from the Eight-Three who’d mortgaged his pension to buy the joint. He had pale blue eyes that darted suddenly to yours, as if he was trying to catch you in an unguarded moment. He hit me with one of those looks now.
    â€˜I heard,’ he said as I found a stool, ‘you stumbled into the Lodge case.’
    Before replying, I raised the traditional toast to Sparkle, who stood behind the bar. Sparkle was a life-size manikin constructed from papier mâché. Long ago, before Blair purchased the bar, somebody had painted Sparkle’s face and hair so that she slightly resembled Marilyn Monroe, then dressed her in a sequinned gown. Lit by a spotlight mounted just ahead of her toes, Sparkle did, indeed, sparkle.
    â€˜Bad news travels fast,’ I finally said. ‘Just as well.’
    â€˜Why’s that?’
    â€˜Because I came here looking for a heads-up.’
    This was an avenue closed to my partner. As I said, she’d never visited Sparkle’s, or any other cop bar, which was probably for the best. That indifference to the opinions of her peers, which I admired, would have gotten a cold reception at the Sparkle Inn.
    But that wasn’t true for me. I was the guy you could go to for a favor, even for a short-term loan, maybe enough to settle your bar bill. I was the guy you could talk to about the wife, the kids or the girlfriend. I was the guy who listened to your endless gripes and actually seemed to care. I was the guy who got along with everyone.
    â€˜I was in the Precinct when Lodge killed the perp,’ Blair readily admitted, ‘only I didn’t catch the case. The man you need to talk to is seated at his usual table, but there’s no guarantee he’ll give you the time of day.’
    I glanced over my shoulder at the broad back and wide shoulders of a notoriously anti-social detective named Linus Potter. Potter’s neck was so much thicker than his small head that he appeared to be defectively manufactured. Perhaps that was why he usually parked himself in a corner and drank with his back to his peers.
    When I carried my drink to his table and set it down, Potter didn’t so much as glance in my direction. Nor did he budge when I took a seat. Only when I finally said, ‘I caught the Lodge case and I’m looking for some guidance,’ did he raise a pair of small blue eyes that looked right through me.
    I responded by folding my arms across my chest. Despite the hostile glare, Potter was an easy read. Once he realized that he couldn’t intimidate me, he’d either tell me the truth or tell me to go fuck myself. Indecision was not in Potter’s DNA.
    â€˜It was a nothin’ case,’ he finally growled. ‘We got everything but a confession. And we woulda got that, too, except the hump was too drunk to remember what he did.’
    Potter went on to describe the evidence against Lodge in enough detail to convince me that his own memory was accurate. And that evidence was impressive. Nevertheless, as the details accumulated, I realized there was a weak link in this perfect chain. Anthony Szarek, the man Potter called the Broom, had provided Russo with an alibi and put Lodge alone with the prisoner. But who vouched for Tony Szarek, a cop unfit for any duty beyond running out for doughnuts and sweeping the floor?
    â€˜This cop, Szarek, is he still on the job?’ I asked.
    â€˜Retired three years ago.’
    â€˜You have any idea where to find him?’
    â€˜Matter of fact, I know exactly where to find the Broom.’ Potter’s smirk was positively gleeful. He’d been setting me up for this punch line all along.
    â€˜And