Approximately forty minutes later, Bobby and I sat at the bar within Hidale again. This time, we drank Bloody Marys, both of which smelled of tabasco, pepper, and sported extra-long spears of celery.
Bobby had his leather folder on the bar in front of us. He flipped it open, pointed to a piece of white paper with yellow highlighted lines, and told me, “Your man Miller isn’t who you think he is.”
“He’s really not my man. I consider him more of a nuisance than anything.” I looked at the piece of paper and read a few phrases that curdled my stomach: three arrests, unlawful trespassing and entry, and theft by deception.
Bobby noticed I had spotted the high-lighted phrases and turned the page over. Beneath it appeared a mug shot of Matthew Van Millerhowsen taken at the city jail.
“Miller’s
