Random Victim by Michael A. Black

Heaven’s Gate, Ryan waited until Murphy had downed his shot and was working on the beer chaser before asking about the
     Walker case. The reflection of the big man’s face soured visibly in the mirror behind the bar.
    “Anything you can tell me?” Ryan asked. “I’d like to avoid covering any dead ends.”
    Murphy snorted as he shook his massive head and set the mug of beer down on the bar.
    “That whole case is a dead end,” he said.
    “You and Roberts like the husband for it at all?”
    “We checked him out,” Murphy said, after taking a long, slow drink from the mug. “His alibi checked out. He was at some kind
     of meeting bullshit, or something.”
    Ryan lit a cigarette and signaled the bartender for a refill. His own shot glass was still half-full.
    Murphy smiled. “Trouble was, we had to run everything by the brass before we could make a move. Like they was afraid we’d
     step in some shit or something. Who you got in charge of you guys?”
    “Paul Brice.”
    “I always got along with him good, until that case, that is.” The bartender set another mug and shot in front of Murphy. The
     big man smiled and sipped the new beer. “Ahhh, nothing like the foam when you first get it from the tap.” After licking his
     mustache, he continued. “He was directing us, too. Me and Roberts wanted to check out different angles, but all Brice wanted
     to do was keep checking on chop shops and carjackers.”
    “Because of the car disappearing?”
    Murphy picked up the shot glass, held it to the lights, then nodded. He swallowed half of the amber liquid, exhaled heavily,
     then took a second more copious sip. “That’s one thing I never knew about Brice. He’s like a fucking bulldog once he gets
     something set in his mind.” Murphy set the glass down and held up his open palms on either side of his temples. “Like he was
     wearing blinders. Only could see one angle. We was running down leads on every fucking Caddie recovered in four states. Never
     found the damn thing. Like it disappeared off the face of the earth, or something.” He picked up the shot and finished the
     rest of the whiskey.
    “How about the insurance angle?” Ryan asked. He sipped his own drink gingerly. He still had to report back to the office for
     a final check before he left. “The lady judge have anything other than the standard policy?”
    Murphy shook his head, sloshing some beer around in his mouth.
    “Just the usual hundred grand,” he said. “And her old man donated half of it to that domestic violence thingamajig that she
     belonged to.” He squinted at Ryan through the smoke. “Of course, what’s a measly hundred g’s to some rich, fucking CEO? He
     probably farts more money than that.”
    Ryan smirked, then leaned closer.
    “So tell me, Murph, how did you see it?”
    Murphy took a long swallow of beer, holding the mug up so that the last bit of the foam drained into his mouth. After setting
     it down on the polished surface he forced a loud belch, then grinned at Ryan.
    “Shit, I been on the job long enough to see it the way your boss tells you to see it,” he said.
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning, if Brice seen it as a carjacking gone bad, then that was that.” One of the older regulars was at the jukebox and
     selected “One For My Baby (And One More For the Road).” Sinatra’s voice filled the bar area. Murphy smirked and pointed to
     the empties on the bar. “They’re playing my song,” he said, rubbing his index finger and thumb together.
    Ryan rolled his eyes, then motioned for the bartender to set Murphy up again.
    “Christ, Murphy, I got an ex-wife and two kids to support.”
    “Here’s to the wonderful institution of marriage,” Murphy said, lifting the new shot glass in an exaggerated toast. He drained
     it in one protracted swallow.
    Ryan looked at him carefully.
    “Jesus, and I thought I could drink.”
    Murphy laughed and picked up the beer. “Every copper thinks he can until he comes up