Diane Rucho.

27

Sandy heard her stomach churn as she looked up at the man standing in front of her and Cynthia. She was surprised that he had approached them just as she had started inquiring about him. It was a bold move that she didn't appreciate.

"The waiter said she didn't know you," she said.

The man grabbed a chair from an empty table and dragged it across the tiled floor to Sandy and Cynthia's table. The screeching sound was barely audible over the summery beats playing in the background. Sandy noticed a young couple dancing to the music.

As soon as he sat down, Sandy had a good look at him. He was no older than thirty-five. He had a long face, wondering eyes under bushy eyebrows, full lips, and a darker cocoa skin tone. With his sharp chiselled cheekbones, he could have passed as a male model.

"Well, the waiter...Liz..couldn't tell if you are one thirsty journalist or just a former girlfriend waiting to plot some revenge," he said, a thin smile pulled across his face.

Sandy felt Cynthia's gaze on her. She looked at her and just as expected, Cynthia burst out laughing uncontrollably.

"Did I say something funny?" the man asked, a frown on his forehead.

Cynthia held a hand to her mouth to quiet herself. "Oh...Sorry...I couldn't help myself. I thought you looked smart until you opened your mouth."

Sandy felt her cheeks flush. "Cynthia, don't do—"

"What? It's the vodka talking, not me," Cynthia interjected before taking another sip from her glass. Her eyes twinkled in delight.

The man worked his jaw and Sandy noticed a flash of disdain in his eyes. "Why are you asking for me, young lady?" he asked, his gaze settling on her.

Sandy squirmed under the man's scrutiny. At the back of her mind, she wondered if he had anything to do with her father's accident. "Do you know Officer Edward Muiru?" she asked.

"No," he replied, "should I know him?"

Sandy showed him the picture on her father's phone. "Six months ago, Officer Muiru took this picture of you in this very bar."

"Oh, him," the man said, "the pesky officer. You should have mentioned the time frame," he said, rearing back in his seat. He pulled his arms to his chest. "How did you know that was me in the photo? My face can barely be seen."

Sandy explained that the man was wearing a distinctive ring in the photo. "What's the likelihood that two or more people got that same ring in this very bar? Well, none, except for one person," she pointed at the ring in the man's hand. "And one more thing...that pesky officer was my father."

The man's expression turned bland. "My bad. I didn't know you were related. You said 'was', why?"

"He died in a car accident six months ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

Sandy asked the man why Officer Muiru had taken a picture of him.

He looked behind him before pointing his finger at Sandy. "You shouldn't be here, young lady. The both of you," he said, his voice barely a whisper over the music playing in the background.

Sandy noticed a twitch on the man's tense face and realized that he was afraid of something. She wondered why he had looked over his shoulder; perhaps he thought someone was watching him.

"Why was my father here?" Sandy asked.

The man paused briefly before responding over the music, "He wanted to know something."

"What?"

"We spoke briefly, no more than ten minutes."

"What did he want to know?"

"He asked me about a young woman who was shot dead ten years ago."

"Diane Rucho?"

"I think that was her name. He asked if I knew her, but I told him I didn't. I'd never seen her before in my life. He kept asking me the same question over and over again, but I gave him the same answer every time. I didn't know who she was."

"He didn't believe you?"

The man touched his chin and played with his soul patch. "He had this look in his eyes as if he thought I was lying to him."

"Did you talk about anything else?"

"No, that was it," he said, looking over his shoulder again before locking eyes with Sandy. "Excuse me, I have to go. Someone is waiting for me."

"Earlier, you said the waiter thought I was a journalist. Why?" Sandy asked as the man began to stand up.

He laughed curtly. "That was a joke, young lady."

"Why a journalist? Do you have a problem with them?"

The man stood up from his seat, a flicker of amusement underneath his bushy brows. "Curious, aren't you? What are you doing here asking about the conversation I had with your father? Shouldn't that be police work?"

"Why assume it's police work?"

"Dont know, just figured he was police and as such it should be related. So what are you?"

"I work with the police."

"At your age?"

"I'm more like interning with the Department."

"I see," he said. "I have to go."

"You haven't answered my question—"

As the man stood up from the table, another man suddenly appeared. The second man was dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, and he had a black ski mask covering his face with three holes cut out. Sandy noticed that the second man was holding something shiny in his hand as he approached. Upon closer inspection, she realized it was a gun.

The second man then stood still, not moving from his spot on the ground. Meanwhile, the first man took a step forward but immediately stopped when he realized that a masked man was standing in front of him, holding a gun.

Sandy's face dropped in shock as she watched the masked man raise his hand forward and point the gun at the first man. Her heart raptured inside her chest as she heard the click of the hammer, and then the loud crack of a bullet as it pierced through the loud music. The sound was a sudden pop. Loud and crisp.

The pub fell silent for a split second quiet like a graveyard, save for the man on the floor choking on his blood. He had been shot in the neck.