back."
Stone grunted. "I know all about him. What about the third one?"
"Upstairs, in the business office, is Parker Christianson. He was a shady lawyer in
California until they did the public a favor and disbarred him. Now he's a bailbondsman." I
indicated a thin-waisted blonde in skintight jeans and a low-cut blouse, which she abundantly
filled. "That waitress is Margot Franklin. She's been divorced three times. She's got the hots for
Maurice. The head bartender's name is Jimmy Washburn. He's—"
"What about the dead girl?" Stone interrupted irritably.
"It's a tragic story. She was from Pennsylvania. Solid middle class family. She went
through a rebel phase and somehow ended up in Colorado. We know she started hanging around
here, and we're pretty sure she got involved with one of the owners. The two of them were very
careful to keep it secret, but we can prove she was spending time at a condo on Sherman Street
owned by The Bootleggers Tavern, LLC. The obvious conclusion is that she was killed by one of
the three B's: Second-Story Meeker, Lightning Grant or Parker Christianson."
Stone looked puzzled. "Three bees?"
Maurice explained. "The burglar, the boxer and the bailbondsman. Three B's."
"I get it," Stone said. "So which one is it?"
I shrugged. "I have no idea."
His face colored with sudden anger. "You mean after all this buildup, you—"
The blonde waitress placed a congenial hand on Maurice's shoulder. Women were
always doing that to him. "Another round, Honey?"
He nodded and asked Stone, "What are you drinking?"
"Beer. Coors."
"You got it," Margot said. She leaned over to take our empty drink glasses—giving
Maurice an unavoidable glimpse of cleavage. "I'm expecting a big kiss at midnight."
He grinned at her. "I'll be waiting."
A clean-cut busboy with wire-rimmed glasses appeared out of nowhere. He reached
for the empty glasses. "I'll take those, Margot."
"Thanks." She gestured in the direction of the bar. "Jimmy's been looking for you. He
says he's just about served up the last of the bar scotch. He needs you to bring some up.
It's—"
"I know. Highland Mist. I'll go snag a couple of bottles."
She glided away, her hips swaying sensuously. The busboy began wiping our table
with a damp rag. Abruptly, he blurted in a furtive tone, "The deal's going down tonight, Sergeant.
He's got over two hundred grand stashed in—"
"Not now!" Stone snapped, jerking his heading meaningfully in my direction.
The color drained from the busboy's face. "You mean they're not—"
"Hell, no, they're not cops! Meet me in the john in fifteen minutes."
"But I thought—"
"I know what you thought. You could have blown the whole setup. Fifteen
minutes."
The busboy walked shakily away. He crossed the room and set the glasses on a bus
tray. I lost sight of him as he descended the stairs to the basement.
Stone had apparently been watching him, too. "What's down there?"
In an irritated tone, I said, "The restrooms and two storage rooms. One for liquor and
the other is refrigerated, for storing food. There's also an employees' lounge."
Stone didn't seem to notice my sudden hostility. "What's in the lounge?"
"Nothing much. A table, some chairs and maybe a dozen lockers."
"Lockers?"
"Yeah," I said. "Like they have in high schools. The workers store their coats and
purses in them."
"Do the owners—"
I could see where he was going with his questions. "No. Theirs are upstairs, in the
business office."
Maurice snapped his fingers. "That must be where the two hundred grand is."
"Probably not," I replied. "There's a safe up there. I assume that's where they'd—"
Stone asked, "A safe? Where?"
The anger I had been trying to restrain finally boiled over. I jerked my head toward
the stairs, where the busboy had disappeared. "That was stupid, Stone. Vintage you!"
"What was?"
"The busboy. Why didn't you let him tell you—"
"With the two of you sitting here? No way!"
"What if something happens to him before—"
He snorted
Stone grunted. "I know all about him. What about the third one?"
"Upstairs, in the business office, is Parker Christianson. He was a shady lawyer in
California until they did the public a favor and disbarred him. Now he's a bailbondsman." I
indicated a thin-waisted blonde in skintight jeans and a low-cut blouse, which she abundantly
filled. "That waitress is Margot Franklin. She's been divorced three times. She's got the hots for
Maurice. The head bartender's name is Jimmy Washburn. He's—"
"What about the dead girl?" Stone interrupted irritably.
"It's a tragic story. She was from Pennsylvania. Solid middle class family. She went
through a rebel phase and somehow ended up in Colorado. We know she started hanging around
here, and we're pretty sure she got involved with one of the owners. The two of them were very
careful to keep it secret, but we can prove she was spending time at a condo on Sherman Street
owned by The Bootleggers Tavern, LLC. The obvious conclusion is that she was killed by one of
the three B's: Second-Story Meeker, Lightning Grant or Parker Christianson."
Stone looked puzzled. "Three bees?"
Maurice explained. "The burglar, the boxer and the bailbondsman. Three B's."
"I get it," Stone said. "So which one is it?"
I shrugged. "I have no idea."
His face colored with sudden anger. "You mean after all this buildup, you—"
The blonde waitress placed a congenial hand on Maurice's shoulder. Women were
always doing that to him. "Another round, Honey?"
He nodded and asked Stone, "What are you drinking?"
"Beer. Coors."
"You got it," Margot said. She leaned over to take our empty drink glasses—giving
Maurice an unavoidable glimpse of cleavage. "I'm expecting a big kiss at midnight."
He grinned at her. "I'll be waiting."
A clean-cut busboy with wire-rimmed glasses appeared out of nowhere. He reached
for the empty glasses. "I'll take those, Margot."
"Thanks." She gestured in the direction of the bar. "Jimmy's been looking for you. He
says he's just about served up the last of the bar scotch. He needs you to bring some up.
It's—"
"I know. Highland Mist. I'll go snag a couple of bottles."
She glided away, her hips swaying sensuously. The busboy began wiping our table
with a damp rag. Abruptly, he blurted in a furtive tone, "The deal's going down tonight, Sergeant.
He's got over two hundred grand stashed in—"
"Not now!" Stone snapped, jerking his heading meaningfully in my direction.
The color drained from the busboy's face. "You mean they're not—"
"Hell, no, they're not cops! Meet me in the john in fifteen minutes."
"But I thought—"
"I know what you thought. You could have blown the whole setup. Fifteen
minutes."
The busboy walked shakily away. He crossed the room and set the glasses on a bus
tray. I lost sight of him as he descended the stairs to the basement.
Stone had apparently been watching him, too. "What's down there?"
In an irritated tone, I said, "The restrooms and two storage rooms. One for liquor and
the other is refrigerated, for storing food. There's also an employees' lounge."
Stone didn't seem to notice my sudden hostility. "What's in the lounge?"
"Nothing much. A table, some chairs and maybe a dozen lockers."
"Lockers?"
"Yeah," I said. "Like they have in high schools. The workers store their coats and
purses in them."
"Do the owners—"
I could see where he was going with his questions. "No. Theirs are upstairs, in the
business office."
Maurice snapped his fingers. "That must be where the two hundred grand is."
"Probably not," I replied. "There's a safe up there. I assume that's where they'd—"
Stone asked, "A safe? Where?"
The anger I had been trying to restrain finally boiled over. I jerked my head toward
the stairs, where the busboy had disappeared. "That was stupid, Stone. Vintage you!"
"What was?"
"The busboy. Why didn't you let him tell you—"
"With the two of you sitting here? No way!"
"What if something happens to him before—"
He snorted
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