THERE WAS ONLY ONE bar within the immediate vicinity of the parked Porsche. It was a bar called Ralph’s. A local juke joint. Place inhabited by state university and medical students mostly looking for cheap draft beer, good hot Buffalo wings, and a game of darts. The joint took up the ground floor space of a four-story brick building set on the corner of Madison and New Scotland Avenue not far from the Albany Medical Center.
“Ralph’s,” I say. “It’s got to be Ralph’s.”
“That just seems too damned easy, boss man,” Erica says.
“Trust me, it always seems too easy. But in the end, it never is.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means, it really doesn’t matter where Roger went to hide. That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“The point is that he might want to remain
