Looks like all roads led to Columbia University.
I knew there was a reason I avoided campus bars.
The Angry Butterfly was located two blocks west of the Columbia campus, but I had realized a long time ago anything within stumbling distance to the dorms was considered fair game for those who matriculated at the prestigious school.
It was eleven o’clock on a Wednesday, but apparently no one cared too much about being hung over for morning classes because the bar was crammed full. There had to be some sort of capacity violation going on here. A big jock-type telling a loud story staggered backwards while laughing, elbowed me in the ribs and sloshed beer on my boots.
Changing out of my brand-new Prada dress had been a good idea.
“Heyyyy, sorry,” the drunk guy slurred, splashing me with more of his beer as he brushed off the shoulders of my jacket. How sauced was this idiot?
“It’s fine, just go away.”
“Maaaan, can I buy you a drink? You’re pretty.”
I rolled my eyes and weaved past him without another word. By now I knew talking to the drunks only encouraged them. Winding my way to the bar, I signaled the bartender over with a jerk of my chin. He was an older guy, mid-forties, and the strain of being so close to this many loud-mouthed drunks was starting to show on his face and in the gray around his temples.
“What’ll it be?” he growled.
“Jameson straight with a Guinness chaser, please.”
“A Guinness chaser?” He glared at me with naked suspicion. “Can I see some ID, girlie?”
Trying to be on my best behavior, I refrained from a snide comeback and opened my wallet to show him my license, proving I was twenty-three and perfectly legal to drink, thank you very much.
“Secret, eh?”
“I’d have to be pretty stupid to make up a name like that,” I replied, shoving my wallet back in my purse. Finally I had succeeded in making the barkeep smile, and now I knew he’d be more amiable. Good thing, too, because I needed to ask him some questions.
He poured my whiskey and put it next to a pint glass of near-black Guinness. I did the shot first, wrinkling my nose as it burned a path down my throat and made my insides feel like I’d swallowed smoke. Smacking my lips, I reached for the beer and took a mouthful, ran my tongue over my teeth and grinned.
I like my Irish booze, what can I say? I am a McQueen, after all.
“You take it easy,” the bartender warned. “Little thing like you, don’t want to see you getting into any trouble.”
“Do you see a lot of girls getting into trouble?”
“Not if I can help it. But I’ve only got two eyes, and there’s a lot of young ladies in here.” He nodded to the bustling crowd. “I can’t be everywhere.”
“Hey, can I ask if your two eyes remember seeing some girls in here recently?”
Someone at the other end of the bar hollered, and the bartender shot him an unfriendly look. “Yeah. Stay here, and when I’m done with this asshat, I’ll see if I remember your friends.”
I nodded, and my patience was rewarded when the stool nearest me was vacated. I pulled two photos out of my purse, one a candid snapshot of Lucy that Genevieve had given me, and the other a computer print of Trish Keller I’d taken off Facebook. God I love the Internet. The photo of Trish was perfect because in it she looked half drunk and was holding a glass in her hand. It might help the bartender remember the wildlife better if he could envision her in her natural habitat.
I tried to tune out the animated environment of the bar. After the Rangers game and my near vamp-out, I was wary of being in crowds. Especially big boozy crowds full of drunk idiots who acted like the human equivalent of a wounded gazelle. If I wanted to keep a grip on myself, it might be a good idea if I didn’t start thinking of college kids in terms of prey. Taking another sip of Guinness, I did my best to ignore the nice, blood-scented crowd.
A girl came up next to me, but I didn’t pay any attention to her. Not until she reached out and snatched the picture of Trish.
“What are you doing with this?” she demanded. She was drunk, had a full drink in hand and was teetering precariously on her too-high heels. I could smell rum on her breath.
I sipped another mouthful of my beer, then took the paper out of her hands and set it back on the bar beside the photo of Lucy. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Well she’s dead.” The girl jammed her finger so hard into the picture she broke a stick-on nail. “So you can stop looking.”
Wow, someone was feisty. I swiveled on my stool, and she obviously wasn’t expecting it because she staggered backwards and almost toppled over.
“How well did you know Trish Keller?”