4
Mike's Bar was located in a side road to the south of the main street in Hunters Creek. On this particular lunch time the bar was quiet, the parking lot round the back containing only a half-dozen vehicles.
Mike Reardon, a brawny Irishman in his early forties, stood behind the bar talking to PT from the sheriff's office. Though Mike had lived in the States for twenty years he still had his Irish accent.
"Drinking, PT?" Mike asked. "No charge, of course."
"Just gimme a juice."
Mike served PT's drink. "Any news?"
"Bill thought you should know we got strangers in town. Taken over the Rosewood. In for the long haul."
"I'd heard they were in the hotel. Expected though, wasn't it? Ain't every day we get killings like these. Not since the time of Big Steve Long." Mike liked to show off h
