Murder Deja Vu

Rudy’s Bar.

Chapter Twenty-Two
Something to Go On

    C larence thought of the steps he’d taken since Jeraldine asked him to dig back into Reece’s cold case. He’d gone over the transcripts of the trial, picking at anything that might have been overlooked. He thought more men might have been involved than came out at trial, but time had passed, people had scattered, and memories were fuzzy. He guessed Reece would find out more from his brother―if the police didn’t catch Reece first. Clarence worried they would.
    A few people sat around Rudy’s. The same guy manned the bar. Different T-shirt. “You’re back,” he said, filling a glass with draft and setting it in front of Clarence. “Looks like your man’s in a pile of trouble.”
    “Yup, on both counts.”
    “Another guy came around asking questions right after your last visit. Said he worked for the prosecutor. What’s his name? Minette?”
    Clarence nodded. “Figures.”
    “Didn’t like the guy. Didn’t tell him much neither.”
    Clarence hoped the bartender liked him better. “I need to get a better picture in my head of the guy Rayanne Johnson left with that night. I know you were hopping because of the crowd, but do you remember if anyone took special notice of him? Maybe someone interested in Rayanne?”
    “Cops interviewed as many people as they could find that were here Friday. They went through the credit cards, but most paid cash. This isn’t an American Express crowd. You know how it is with some people and cops. They plain don’t like talking to them, even old harmless Micah. I’m guessing some of ’em said they weren’t here that night.” He glanced sideways at Clarence as he snapped open a couple of bottles and slid them down the bar to two guys who looked as if they were badly in need of a cool one.
    “Rayanne had an off and on squeeze. Jimmy Buffet. That’s not his real name, just what everyone calls him ’cause he’s always singing Margaritaville whenever he has a snootful and gets hold of a mike.”
    Clarence took out his notebook. “What’s his real name?”
    “Waylon Greer.” The bartender checked his watch. “It’s almost three. Waylon’ll probably be in ’round four. Rarely misses a day, which is why Rayanne kept breaking up with him. He’s one of ’em don’t like cops. Might not’ve told them all he knows, if he even admitted he was here. Either that or he was drunker’n shit and don’t remember.”
    “Keep filling my glass till he gets here, then point him out. If anyone else comes in who might have been here that night, give me a heads up, will ya?”
    The bartender thought it over. “Okay, sure.”
    While he waited, Clarence thought about the four men at the bar with Reece the night of Karen’s murder, including Carl. Finding people was easy when he knew who they were. They paid taxes, got speeding or parking tickets, married, and divorced. He’d interviewed everyone but Carl on the phone but never got around to a face-to-face with any of them. He’d correct that when he returned home, because all were within driving distance. Before, he fit the investigation around other cases. Now, it was his prime concern. Jeri’s too. He’d read the transcripts again, looking for the hole that no one found in over twenty years. Arrogance, thy name is Clarence Wright.
    He labored on his third draft when the bartender tapped his finger on the bar and nodded toward the lanky man who came through the door. Waylon Greer hopped on a stool two down from Clarence with no one in between, and ordered a draft. The bartender served him and pointed at Clarence. Greer looked like he’d put in a hard day doing whatever he did. His grimy fingernails suggested some sort of mechanic, but Clarence didn’t need an employment history.
    Greer slid over next to Clarence. “My buddy says you want to talk to me. Let me guess. About Rayanne?”
    “My name’s Clarence Wright. I’m working for Reece Daughtry’s attorney.”
    Greer hopped off his stool and waved his arms in the air. “Hey, y’all. Hear this? This fella here’s working for the guy cut my Rayanne’s head almost clear off.”
    There were a few boos and hisses, nothing Clarence hadn’t heard before in the midst of hostile territory. “You want to sit down and answer a couple of questions without the histrionics?”
    “Histrionics.” Greer still hadn’t lowered his voice. “What the hell kind of word is that? I don’t even know what the fuck it