I swallowed, a little scared at his sudden switch in temperament. “I’m only trying to find anyone who knew this woman, saw her-anything.” I mustered as much sweetness as I could, still feeling the stares of the two customers. “Can I please show you her picture? Her name was Christine O’Meara.”

The man stared at my card and then back at me. “You’re not no cop? They come in here with the wrong idea every time a new one gets this beat. Who knows? Maybe they’re sending women now.”

“Do I look like a cop?” I set my purse on an empty bar stool, held out my arms and twirled. I was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt. “I’m not carrying, as you can see.”

That brought a laugh from all three, and the customer with a tattoo of a Bible verse on his bicep said, “Oh, you’re carrying. Just not no weapons.”

I held out my bag. “You want to look inside? You can check my ID. I promise the most dangerous thing in my purse is a Snickers bar.”

More laughter, and the bartender yelled over the music, “Show me this picture.”

While the bartender examined the photo, I decided I might need an eardrum transplant if I stayed in here much longer.

He placed the picture on the bar in front of the customers, shaking his head. “I been here fifteen years and I can count on my fingers how many white women come in here, and that’s with counting you. This lady in the picture, I don’t know her. I never seen her.”

The two customers shook their heads no, too, and returned to their nearly finished lunches of tamales, beans and rice.

“If you’ve been here fifteen years, then you know the area.” I sat at the bar. “Is there anywhere else a woman who, well, enjoyed her liquor might go to spend time around here?”

“Ah. She was una borracha, yes? A drunk?”

I nodded.

“I don’t let that kind stay around my place. But a couple streets over, there used to be an icehouse. People could hang around all day if they wanted. Guess the woman who owned it didn’t care, you know? She was something. Drove a motorcycle to work.”

Thank goodness the current song was a simple Spanish guitar solo and I could hear better. “You said there used to be an icehouse. It’s not there anymore?”

“Closed about five years ago, I’m thinking. Some of those customers-mostly gringos-they tried to come over here. Me and my brother, we had to keep throwing them out. They wanted to stay all day, take up my tables, sneak their own bottle in to fill their glasses after only buying one drink.”

“Do you remember the name of this place?”

“Oh, si. Rhoda’s. It’s not there no more, but maybe somebody on that street knows something.” He wrote directions on the back of my business card and gave it to me.

“Thanks so much-is it Pedro?”

He nodded.

“One more thing,” I said.

“¿Si?”

“Can I get a few tamales to go?”

But Pedro convinced me to stay for lunch. Seemed his mother had just dropped off homemade flour tortillas. They were still hot. Besides enjoying delicious beans and tamales, I spread two tortillas with butter and rolled them up to enjoy with my meal. There is nothing in the world better than a homemade tortilla dripping with butter. Since the key ingredient in a good tortilla is lard, I was glad I’d exercised that morning.

Then I drove several blocks to where the icehouse used to be. The only structure anywhere near where Pedro had told me to look was a strip mall housing a pizza outlet, a dry cleaners, a manicure shop and a place that offered eight-dollar haircuts.

Okay. Wouldn’t learn anything from the pizza place. Kids usually worked there. The cheaper hair salons probably had a high employee turnover. I parked in front of the manicure shop-Nails by Suzi-and went inside.

The pretty Asian woman was alone, and no matter what question I asked, it was always answered with, “You want French manicure?” Or “You want pedicure? We do nice pedicure.” When I offered my card, I was directed with a smile to a fishbowl on the front counter loaded with other business cards, phone numbers inked on the backs. “We have drawing once a month,” I was told. “Free manicure.”

I backed out quickly, hearing, “It’s okay you come tomorrow. I be here.”

Please, dry-cleaner person, know something, I thought.

The man behind the counter said, “Ticket,” and held out his hand even before I was through the door. In the background, a huge circular rack held plastic-draped clothes, and a giant gray laundry bin was overflowing with recent acquisitions.

“I don’t have a ticket, I-”

“No ticket. Hmmm. And you’re not a regular customer, because I certainly don’t recognize you. What shall we do?” He clasped his hands in front of him and cocked his balding head. His pants were belted high, and his starched shirt was buttoned all the way to the neck. I guessed he had to be about sixty, maybe older.

“My name is Abby Rose, and I’m not here to pick up dry cleaning.” I handed him the card the manicurist wanted me to drop in the fishbowl. “I hope you can help me with a case.”

He took the card and stared at it for a second; then his eyes grew wide with delight. “You’re a detective? How fun.”

“Right. Fun,” I said. “How long have you worked here… um… sorry. What’s your name?”

“How rude of me.” He held out his hand. “Herman. Herman Bosworth. I opened in 2002.”

We shook, and I had to pull my hand away when he kept holding on.

“You own the place, Mr. Bosworth?”

“I do-or should I say the bank and I do. What would life be without mort-gag-es?” He practically sang the word, and followed this with a snorting laugh.

This guy’s crosshairs definitely weren’t lined up. “Okay, then. Would you by chance know who owned any of the properties bought up to build this strip center?”

His eyes grew brighter, and he supported his elbow with one hand while the other hand rested on his cheek. “I might. What’s this about, Abby?”

“I’m hoping to talk to a woman named Rhoda who once owned a bar around here. I don’t have a last name.”

“Why do you need to find Rhoda?”

“As I said. I need to talk to her,” I answered.

“You’re being e-va-sive. About what, Abby? You can tell me.”

I could research real estate records and might find out what I needed-probably should have done that to begin with. But I had a feeling this guy knew something. He could save me time if he’d quit fooling around. “You want money, Mr. Bosworth?” I started to open my purse.

But Herman Bosworth was shaking his head vigorously. “No-no-no-no. No money. I’m simply interested. Dry cleaning is, well, rather dry. Dirty clothes in, clean clothes out. But you’re dealing with something important, and I can help you. So do tell, Abby. Please?”

I sighed and, without naming names, I told him I hoped to locate anyone who may have known a cold-case victim, hoping that would be enough information to satisfy him.

“Cold Case. I love that show. You don’t look anything like that blond actress. But you’re doing what she does, and that is so awesome.”

“Will you please tell me Rhoda’s last name now?”

He folded his arms, leaned toward me and whispered, “I can do more than that.”

But before he could say another word, Paul Kravitz walked in. “You’re sure taking a long time picking up your dry cleaning, Abby.”

Damn. I thought he was leaving town, yet here it was Thursday and he was still lurking around. He’d found me even though I’d been watching for a tail. Probably had someone helping him who knew Houston streets.

“Do you work with Detective Rose?” Herman asked.

I said, “He does not-”

“Detective Rose,” Kravitz said. “I like that. You could say we work together. Exactly what part of the case are you helping her with?”

“Don’t answer that, Herman,” I said. “I don’t work with him. I don’t work for him. He followed me here.”

“You were followed?” Herman clapped twice. “Oh, my goodness, wait until I tell my partner, Robert.”