On the Prowl

by hand sometimes. Prepare their own meals more often. And take walks.

    THE Bar was a flat, fading structure with little to recommend it from the outside. Inside it was dim and smelled of grilled hamburgers and beer. The five-o’clockers hadn’t hit yet, so there weren’t many customers. It still took the manager several minutes to find time for him.
    The woman was over fifty and over six feet, with poufy hair and lips greased to an immaculate shine. “Jackie Montoya,” she said, holding out a hand. “I’m night manager. Is there a problem?”
    “No, ma’am.” She had a good handshake, firm without trying to prove anything, and she didn’t hold on too long. “I’m Sergeant Hunter. I’ve got some questions about one of your customers last night. Jimmie Shaw.”
    Her glossy lips tightened. “Look, I want to help and all that, but I already told that other officer all I knew.”
    Nathan let that sink in a beat. “Other officer?”
    “The detective. Cox, Fox—something like that. Little guy with a shiny face.”
    “Eldon Knox.”
    “That’s him. He’s already got his witness, so I don’t see what more I can do for you.”
    The flush of anger took a second to dissipate enough for Nathan to speak calmly. “I apologize for the inconvenience, ma’am. I know you’re busy, but I do have to ask some questions. Is there someplace quiet we could talk?”
    She heaved a sigh, looked around, and grimaced. “Might as well make it my office. Your uniform puts some of my customers off. Come on.”
    She set a quick pace in spite of the heels that must kill her feet by the end of the night. Nathan followed.
    Her office was a tiny, cluttered cubby just past the restrooms. It stank of ashes and cigarette smoke. She shifted a pile of computer printouts off the wooden chair and told him to have a seat. He did.
    Immediately she lit a cigarette. “Okay. Like I told the other guy, Jimmy’s a regular. He doesn’t—didn’t—come in every day, like some. Doesn’t work downtown, does he? But he has—had—a taste for the panty hose crowd, if you get what I mean. Women in heels with office jobs. Did pretty well with them, too.”
    “How did he do last night?”
    Her smile was quick and cocky. “Just fine.” The smile died. “Or not so fine, maybe, if she’s the one who killed him. He left with her about midnight.”
    “Who?”
    “Well, I didn’t know her—don’t think I’ve ever seen her in here before. But Ed Bates did. He’s a real regular, in here every night, and he knew her, see? That’s why that detective took Ed with him, so he could make a statement. Lord, but Ed’ll be full of himself.” She inhaled hard enough to sink her cheeks in, then blew the smoke out her nose. “If she turns out to be your killer, he’s going to be dining out on his story for months.”
    “Did you learn the name of this woman?”
    “I heard Ed telling the detective about her. We all did. She’s the one who did his therapy after he totaled his pickup a few months ago.” She paused, puffing. “Some kind of weird-ass name. I can’t quite call it to mind, but it sounded foreign.”
    “Kai?” he asked, his hear pounding. “Was the name Kai Michalski?”
    “That’s her.” Satisfied, she mashed out the stub of her cigarette. “That’s the name of the bitch who did that poor boy in.”

    BETWEEN patients, Kai surfed the Internet.
    Hellhounds, it turned out, did not have a great rep. Not here, anyway. Maybe in other realms they were considered upright or cuddly or commonplace. Here they showed up in role-playing games as monsters. They were popular in comic books, too, generally as minions of the devil. Of course, those weren’t reliable sources—a search on her own name would suggest she was Japanese, Hawaiian, or a character in a violent video game. But they indicated the general outlook.
    Her dictionary, consulted on the run, hadn’t been much help. It described a hellhound as “a mythical watchdog of hell.” Obviously Nathan was no myth, but she couldn’t hold it against the dictionary for getting that part wrong. When it was printed, lots of things were considered myth that turned out to be true, like dragons. But they were just as wrong with the “of hell” part.
    At least, she hoped they were. Hell. Hellhound. The connection was obvious, but had to be a mistake, a misnaming. Nothing good came from hell.
    Hell itself was misnamed, of course, if by that you meant the demon realm, not a final