The Governor's Wife by Michael Harvey

Simone looked up, a beer in one hand and half of another spilled down the front of her jacket. A couple of men on either side were taking turns apologizing.
    “Don’t worry about it,” she said.
    One of them offered to stand her another round. She held out the half-empty pint to me. “That’s okay. He gets this one anyway.”
    The two didn’t recognize me, but I knew them as regulars. They hung around, talking to us for a bit, stealing a glance at Karen every chance they got. Finally, they drifted away and we were alone.
    “Sorry about that,” I said, pointing at the jacket.
    “That’s what dry cleaners are for. Cheers.”
    We touched our pints together. Karen took a look around. “I like this place. It’s got that lived-in feel.”
    “That’s one way to put it.”
    “What’s with the carrots?” she said, pointing to a large fuzzy one hanging from the ceiling directly overhead.
    “The owner used to dress up in a rabbit suit at street fairs and sell carrots for a quarter apiece. People loved it.”
    “Okay.”
    “It’s Chicago. You know. Drinkers.”
    “I saw the sign behind the bar. Tacitus. That’s great.”
    “The cops come in and write them up once a month for the smoking. The manager says the publicity he gets is well worth the fines.”
    “He’s got me sold.” Karen took a sip of her pint and licked a line of foam off her upper lip. “How was your day?”
    “Long.”
    “Anything you want to talk about?”
    “Probably not.”
    “You sure?”
    “It’s Marie Perry.”
    Karen raised her hands in protest. “Sorry I asked.”
    “That bad between you two?”
    “Things are a little frosty, but I can handle it. So, what did she do?”
    “Nothing, really.” I squinted as a man at a nearby table blew a stream of smoke over our heads. “Ray ever mention any psychological problems?”
    “With Marie? Not that I can recall. Why?”
    “Just loose talk. You get a lot of that in this line of work.”
    “She’s a hard woman, Michael. But crazy?” Karen shook her head. “I can’t see it.”
    “Me neither.”
    We drank our beers and listened to the bar chatter around us.
    “Can I ask you something?” Karen said.
    “Is it about the case?”
    “It’s about your gun. I noticed you carry one.”
    “Mostly for show.”
    “But you’ve used it? I mean actually fired it?”
    “I have.”
    “Does that bother you?”
    “Shooting at another human being should bother anyone. If it doesn’t, you’ve got a serious problem.”
    “Yet you choose to do it for a living?”
    “I chose to be a cop. Then a private investigator. Like I said, the gun’s a very small part of it. Why all the questions?”
    “It’s interesting. You’re interesting.”
    “Not really.”
    “I find that people who think they’re not interesting invariably are.”
    “And people who
do
find themselves interesting…”
    Karen rolled her eyes. “We all know some of them.”
    My phone buzzed with an e-mail. It was Jack O’Donnell, suggesting a time and place for our meeting. I shook my head and slipped the phone back in my pocket.
    “What is it?” Karen said.
    “A friend wants me to meet him in the middle of nowhere tomorrow night.”
    “Who is he?”
    “Just a guy. Used to work as the transportation writer for the
Trib
. Now he runs an industry newsletter on highway construction.”
    “Does it have anything to do with Ray?”
    “Could be.”
    “Highway construction? I don’t see the connection.”
    “Neither do I, but that’s how things usually work.” I pulled my pint an inch closer. “A case is like a ball of string. You pick one thread at random and start pulling. Eventually, it leads you to whatever’s in the middle. At least that’s the hope.”
    “So you really don’t know where you’re going?”
    “I start out by asking questions, watch how people react, and decide what to do from there.”
    “You must piss off a lot of people?”
    I grinned. “We’re back to the gun again.”
    “Do you