52 Barn Street

◾CHAPTER IV◾

Hannah Croft, 28, Caucasian, blue eyes, 5'5, single and unemployed, home address, unknown.

Micah Allan-Fayemi ,32, negroid, brown eyes, 6'2, divorced, last place of employment, The happy town bar, home address, #324 Barn street.

I scanned both files containing the profiles of the two victims murdered that same night as my father but outside the abandoned warehouse.

I had painstakingly gathered as much information as I could about them and put the information gathered into two separate files.

The goal was to find the link between them. I had a gut feeling that there was a link, some sort of connection.

They couldn't just have been two random strangers murdered outside the warehouse.

The warehouse wasn't in use, they had to be looking for something...or doing something.

I had no luck whatsoever with Hannah. It was almost impossible to find more information on her.

Micah on the other hand...I thought it best to pay the happy town bar a little visit.

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The happy town bar looked anything but happy.

Happy town, the name of the bar was so ironic that it was almost laughable.

Dreary and soulless country music blared from overhead speakers adding to the bar's already bleak atmosphere. The bar could use more lightning and better music.

It was quite crowded for an early evening. I did my best to avoid bumping into sweaty or drunk bodies while moving to the counter.

The stench of sweat, alcohol and cigarettes was repulsive.
What a nice place to be, isn't it?

Peeling wallpapers, stained floors, poor lighting, drunk strangers and terrible music. Just the perfect combination.

I spotted the bartendress up in front and slid onto a barstool at the counter.

"What can I get you?" Her tone was neutral, completely devoid of any emotion.

"Just water," I returned.
She stared at me like I had just ordered a cup of stale urine, raising one of her excessively carved and pierced eyebrows.

She went on to get what I had asked for though, moving her skinny body fluidly and with enough finesse while serving multiple customers simultaneously with the same passive expression on her face.

Although dressed skimpily in a black cropped top, a pair of jean shorts and a black leather jacket, she looked like she was ready to rip off the head of anyone who dared to make a move on her.

She did work effectively though, drinks were served almost immediately they were ordered.

She placed a tall glass of water in front of me, eyeing the glass of water maliciously.

"Can I ask you something." I began.

She stopped chewing her chewing gum for a fleet second, her lips, stained blood red, curled up in a half smile. She angled herself closer to me.

"Baby girl, I get paid to work not to talk to customers." She leaned back.

I had to think of something else to say before she walked away.

"It's about Micah Allan-Fayemi. Do you know him?"

Her eyes narrowed down on me as her features contorted into a harsh frown.

"Are you a cop or a journalist?" Her words were said with a sneer.

"I'm neither of the both. Actually, I'm asking for a friend. She hasn't heard from him in a year and she's worried." That sounded smooth in my own ears.