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When I worked for my mother, Prozac was my drug of choice. Since moving to Key West, I've discovered a slice of key lime pie works just as well. The night I found out Nick Hastings had been murdered less than two miles from where I was tending bar, I ate a whole damn pie.

Dirty Alvin's is a bar where you can get a burger at a reasonable price, along with a frosty of beer and a slice of the best key lime pie on the island. They cater to a diverse crowd, and the dozen tables stay full half the time. The bar has eight stools squeezed into enough space for six, but it's where most of the customers gather two or three deep to tell their stories and bemoan their days.

Customers were scarce that Thursday night, and we were closing early. There were three of us working, and I was cleaning up behind the bar. Tanya, the owner, was in the back room counting the till. When Tanya's father, the original Dirty Alvin, died, she took over. I knew something about working for a family business, and I suspected she had mixed feelings about running the place.

I took a moment to watch while Marissa, the waitress, struggled to slip into her leathers. She was a small blonde with a tiny waist and large store-bought breasts, and male and female customers alike often took the time to stare at her. Outside, her girlfriend Christy was showing her impatience by revving up her Harley, which was why I didn't hear the front door open.

When I looked up, a tall, thin woman stood in front of me. I jumped, and a frown broke the deadpan look fixed upon her pitted face. "What's the problem?" she asked, as if she was used to having people jump at the sight of her.

Maybe she was, I thought. I shook my head. "Nothing. I didn't know you were standing there." I threw the towel I'd been using into the sink and met her gaze without flinching. "We're closed."

"That's good for both of us." She set one of the biggest purses I'd ever seen onto the counter and slid onto the bar stool across from me.

Now it was my turn to frown. "I thought I said we were closed."

Apparently the lady was deaf because she ignored me, opened her purse, and began rummaging around. At one point I swear her entire arm appeared lost in the void. When she finished digging into the abyss, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a Bic lighter. She set them down and when I protested, she interrupted me, "Yeah, yeah, I know. You're closed." She reached back into the bag and this time she drew out a badge and tossed it onto the bar. "You Wes Darling?" she asked.

I paid little attention to the badge. I'd seen them before. Instead I asked, "Did I serve a minor or something...?"

She took the time to light a cigarette and drop the pack back into her purse before answering. "It's not officer, it's Detective Davies. I'm afraid this is a little more serious, Wes."