“What makes you think that?”
Jean-Pierre sighs and then looks at me, frowning.
“He talked about it from time to time. Not to me of course, but I hear everything that is said in this place, one way or another.” He continues before I can ask another question. “He was interested in cooking. Or rather anti-cooking.”
“Anti-cooking.” I repeat.
“Mmmm, the raw foods diet. You have heard of this?”
I think of the Juice Bar and Sandra’s entrée. “I have. There are people who do that for, like, a living?”
“Apparently.” Jean-Pierre sniffs, starts rubbing his white cloth over another glass. “There’s a culinary school that specializes in this type of diet in Arizona. Or New Mexico maybe. Mark wanted to attend. I do not know much more than that, but you might want to speak with Chad, our dishwasher. The two got along well. He is out back now, if you would like to speak with him briefly.” He looks over the glass at me, emphasizing the word “briefly.”
“Thanks, that’d be great,” I say and walk toward the door in the rear of the space where his thin finger points.
The kitchen is so bright after the dim interior of the restaurant that I’m nearly blinded. A loud clanking comes from the back of the space covered with stainless steel. The floor is red tile and spotless, along with all of the stainless steel counters.
I follow the clanking sounds and find a guy in his mid-twenties behind a wall with a pass through window where dirty dishes are shoved by the busboys. He has long hair in dreadlocks. His arms—roughly the size of small trees—are tattooed up to his t-shirt sleeves and maybe beyond that. He’s wearing a baggy but clean t-shirt and equally baggy jeans. He glances my way and blue eyes peer at me from under a bandana rolled to keep the dreads from falling into his eyes. His nose sports a thick metal bull ring.
“Hey,” he says. He’s propping a huge silver pot in the sink full of bubbles. The pot is big enough for me to sit in.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Tayt Waters. I run a securities firm and was hired to look for Mark Chester. I understand he’s missing.”
Chad paused when I gave my greeting but goes back to scrubbing. “Really? Huh.”
“Can you tell me when you last saw him?”
“Not sure where he went after Saturday night. We were supposed to get together for an early workout on Sunday, but he never showed.”
“This was at Garrison’s Gym?”
He nods.
“We work out there a few times a week.” He pauses again to swipe at a stray dread that’s come loose from the bandana. “Who hired you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Who hired you to find Mark?”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “That information is confidential.”
He nods, a small smile forming on his lips. “Then so’s any information I could share.”
I cross my arms, aware that this body language isn’t going to help Chad open up to me. I uncross them and then feel awkward. What body language says, “Trust me?”
“Look, I’m not at liberty to discuss my clients, it’s a part of my contract. But someone was worried enough to hire me.”
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
“Did Mark say anything to you about moving? Maybe out West?”
Chad lifts his head, looks me over. I suck in my stomach unconsciously.
“You work out at Garrison’s? You seem familiar.”
I shake my head. Flattered that he thinks I work out at all. “I use The Gym on Weldon Street. Marital arts mostly.”
Chad’s eyebrows raise. “You should come to Garrison’s sometime. I’m allowed a guest two times a month.” Is he asking because he wants to see me again or because he can tell I need a workout? A smile crinkles the corner of his mouth.
“Thanks, but I’m recovering from an injury right now.” My words sound stiff. Worse, my cheeks are getting hot. What is wrong with me?
He nods. “Change your mind, let me know.”
“About Mark ...”
Chad puts the pot down and wipes his hands on a nearby towel. He stretches his back, dreads dangling halfway down his back. I try not to stare, but they’ve always fascinated me.
He catches my eye again and now my cheeks are on fire. Has being a hermit for two months really made me such a socially awkward person?
“Look, here’s what I know about Mark. He’s a good guy. I’ve been here at Chantal’s two years and most of the servers here act like dishwashers are lepers or something.” He pauses, takes a couple swigs from a water glass on the stainless steel shelf over the sink.
“Mark was cool. Down to earth, you know? We had our breaks at the same time. It turned out we had a lot in common. I got him interested in weightlifting; he got me turned on to eating healthier. We’re buddies, hang out. That’s it. We weren’t dating or anything, so I don’t know all the intricacies of his life.”
“Do you know his girlfriend, Sandra?”
Chad, who had just taken a swig of water, nearly spits it out. Instead, he chokes.
I wait for him to finish, then ask again, “Sandra at Garrison’s. Do you know her well? Did you and Chad ever, I don’t know, double date?”
He shakes his head, pounding one fist on his chest and clearing his throat.
“No,” he croaks. “Sandra’s—”
“Excuse me.” I hadn’t heard Jean-Pierre appear in the kitchen and yet here he is, near my shoulder. I jump and then try to make it appear that he didn’t startle me. My reflexes are obviously also out of shape.
“Chad, have you made space in the storeroom for the dry goods shipment? It will be arriving any moment now.”
Chad pounds his chest one last time and clears his throat while shaking his head. “I was just about to do that,” he says in a wheezy voice.
“Wonderful. Merci.”
Jean-Pierre looks at me, his gaze saying, “Your time is up.” I nod, thank Chad and leave him one of my cards. He glances at it before depositing it into his baggy jean’s pocket.
“If you think of anything else, please get in touch.”
He smiles at me, slow and crooked. “Sure,” he says.
Chapter Five
I run a few errands on foot, the sun slowly warming the air until finally it’s bearable to breathe. The walking, too, is warming me up. Feeling inspired, I decide to continue to the state police barracks. I’ll ask C.J. about the missing person’s report rather than call him.
Crossing Main Street, the smell of onions and fresh seafood wafting from a nearby restaurant makes me alternately hungry and nauseous. One of the meds I’m taking upsets my stomach early in the day. My feet make little powdery puffs with each step. The sidewalks are cracked and broken in spots and I go slowly enough that I can map out my next several steps before taking them. Between being careful not to fall, my medication’s side effects, and stretch pants, I’ve become an old lady.
My heart pounds toward the top of the hill, reminding me how out of shape I am, my breath coming in fast, steamy clouds. Sweat has broken out on my forehead. My shoulder area is aching and I long to stick a hand under my coat and shirt and rub the spot.
Instead, I distract myself. What was Chad going to say about Sandra? He knows her, obviously, but his reaction wasn’t what I expected. Unless he’s the one dating her? That would explain the choking. I try to picture the two of them as a couple. I’ve seen stranger things, though height-wise she’d tower over him. I’d guess he’s about five-seven at the most and she’s got to be closer to six feet.
Finally, blissfully, the road begins to level off. I walk past a new housing development where large houses line a semi-private drive. Then, the site of the Governor Smith mansion which, supposedly, is haunted. I don’t get any weird vibes passing by it though. The place looks beautiful, as always. A handful of older homes line the next portion of the street before turning to newer houses. I pass Hard’ack, a place for downhill skiing, snowboarding and sledding in winter and where I run sprints in summer. Ten minutes late
r I’m at the state police barracks parking lot. A dark green cruiser pulls in, slows.
I glance over and see a familiar tall, straight form in the driver’s seat.
“Hey, this is a nice surprise,” C.J. says as the window glides down. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
C.J. grins.
“I need to grab something from my desk before heading into the city. I’m due at the courthouse. Want to ride along?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Hop in.”
I open the passenger door and slide in, the interior warm and welcoming. C.J. jogs to the glass door and goes inside the building. The car smells spicy, like C.J.’s cologne. Buttons and a tiny laptop and all sorts of other technical things I don’t recognize line the dash. I sink into the passenger seat with a little sigh.
“Feeling okay?” C.J. asks moments later, tucking paperwork into the console between us and pulling out of the lot.
“Fine. Just old and fat and tired.”
C.J. makes a “hmmm,” sound. If you’re looking for reassurances, don’t look to C.J. He’s the worst pep talk giver I’ve ever met.
“How’s your PT going?” He turns out of the parking area and onto Route 105.
I shrug my shoulders. “Good, I guess. I’m not making the progress I’d hoped. My shoulder still aches a lot with any activity. Not that I’ve even made it to the gym lately.”
“You should come work out with me sometime.”
C.J.’s workouts take place late at night when I’m pulling on jammies and snuggling into bed. There’s nothing I look forward to less after a long day of work than going to the gym. I look at him. His eyes are focused on me instead of the road. He gives me a slow smile and turns his attention back to the wheel.
We’re still new at this we-used-to-date-but-now-are-just-friends thing. Is it always going to feel this awkward? It’s like we’re having one conversation out loud but another one is going on below the surface. Or is it just my imagination?
“I stopped by because I was looking for some information on a new client,” I say.
“Oh.” Even I’m not so socially out of touch that I miss the disappointment in his voice. “It’s a work visit then,” he says.
I nod, deciding to play dumb and avoid a potentially uncomfortable conversation.
“A woman in town called me to track down her missing boyfriend. You know her family probably. They own Garrison’s Gym.” C.J.’s fingers slip on the steering wheel suddenly, and he clears his throat, replants them.
“She said she filed a police report but that not a lot had been done,” I say. “I just wanted to double check, see what was going on.”
C.J. nods. Curt. Quick. “What’s the guy’s name?”
I tell him.
“Doesn’t ring a bell. I can check when I get back to barracks and see.” He pauses, rubs a hand over his cheek. His fingers are long. He would have made an excellent piano player.
“I appreciate it,” I say.
We ride the rest of the way into town in silence. It’s not a comfortable one though, and I try to think of something to talk about.
“How’s work going?” I finally manage. Not my most original conversation starter, but hey, I’ve done worse.
“Busy, as always. Got a couple of new recruits starting end of this week.”
“Anyone you’ll be overseeing?”
C.J. shakes his head. “Not that I know of.”
Another couple minutes of quiet and then I ask if he can drop me off at my office before heading to the courthouse.
“That’s where I was headed,” he says tightly.
“Oh.”
“Look, Tayt—” he starts.
At the same time I say, “C.J., I really—”
We glance at each other and laugh. For a second it’s like it used to be. Fences down, familiarity in the look. But then I turn to look at my hands, rubbing fingers together. My skin is dry and the sound makes a small scritch, scritch sound.
C.J. clears his throat and begins again. “I was just going to say that, uh, I was wondering if you’d want to get dinner sometime this weekend.”
The only sound between us are the wheels humming. Occasionally, one of the tires hits a snow clot and crunches.
“I can’t.” I say. “I have a security detail this weekend and I don’t think—”
“Security detail. Already?” He cranes in his seat to look at me, his eyes going automatically to my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
My breath comes out in a whoosh. “You sound like my mother.”
“I just think you should take it easy. You just said that your PT isn’t going well. Anyway, someone has to look out for you. It might as well be me.” He says this with absolute certainty. His attention is back on the road. Heat fills my cheeks. This time it’s not from embarrassment.
This isn’t going to work. The words bang around in my head, not for the first time in recent months. I can’t do this post-breakup-friendship stuff. I can’t deal with C.J. and his possessiveness. It’s not just now—it’s what it reminds me of. He’s always acted like he knew better than me what I needed. He has no claim, I remind myself, especially after the way our relationship ended years ago.
“Look, I don’t need you or anyone else to look out for me, okay? I’ve got it covered.” The words were supposed to sound light and jokey but instead are closer to a snarl. C.J. glances at me again, surprise marring his perfectly handsome face. Sometimes I hate him for being so attractive.
“Can you just let me out here?” I ask, hand on the door handle.
“No, I can’t,” C.J. says. “This is an unsafe area to get out of a vehicle.”
I roll my eyes in response.
He slows down moments later, applies the blinker and pulls over. Then he turns and looks at me. I don’t make eye contact. I start to feel hot and itchy, like a pure wool sweater is covering my bare flesh.
“What is going on with you?” C.J. asks. “Why the hostility? I thought we were supposed to be friends. You know f-r-i-e-n-d-s.” He draws the word out as though it has many syllables. He sighs, stares out of the windshield, his long arms hanging over the steering wheel. “I’m just looking out for you, you know.”
Awkward pause.
“I know you are,” I say. “And I didn’t mean to sound ... ungrateful. It’s just that it’s been months now of my mother and everyone else checking on me and asking how I’m feeling and telling me what I should and shouldn’t be doing to get better. I appreciate the concern, but honestly?” Both of my hands rise and then fall to my lap limply. “It’s exhausting. And frustrating. I know how to take care of myself. I’m following the doctor’s orders (okay, this is a small lie). I don’t need an army of people telling me what to do.”
“Big surprise there.” C.J. has a smile on his face. I can tell, even though I’m not looking at him. Part of me wants to shake him hard enough to make the smile fall off and another part of me wants to curl up against his chest and let him take care of me.
“I’d better go. I have a lot of work to do still.”
My fingers are already gripping the lever to open it when he says, “You know, we’re just concerned about you, Tayt. It’s not a bad thing to have people care about you.”
But I feel like I’m being strangled. I keep the words trapped behind my teeth.
“I know,” I say instead. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Anytime,” C.J. says and grabs my hand across the seat. It’s warm and softer than you’d expect.
“Really, Tayt. You know that I’m here for you anytime, right?”
I nod, try to smile, then squeeze his fingers and let his hand fall, closing the door quietly.
***
I spend the afternoon puttering about in my office, filling out paperwork and filing it, and updating the website. After a brief nap at my desk, I rub creases from my left cheek and try calling Reba using the burner phone. There is no answer and I decide
not to leave a message.
Chewing the inside of my lip, I think about the messages she left. Her voice sounded so worried, desperate almost. I make a mental note to try her again later today.
I open the file for the security gig in Colchester. It’s in three days and I haven’t set anything up yet. I make a note of the address. A house party, the musician’s mother had said. I MapQuest it, then print out the map and make a few notes. I’ll do a drive by, maybe stop in and ask the owners if I can take a look around inside. I’m assuming the party will be indoors since it’s the middle of winter.
The group should be small, less than thirty people. Party-goers in their mid-twenties though, so definitely an alcohol-focused crowd, drugs likely too. Generally, I’d need backup. A crowd this size at a private function can be handled by one security guard or bouncer, but it’s better with two. Plus, I’m not playing my A game. I don’t want to fork over a chunk of the payment though. I need the cash too much at this point.
I yawn and stretch. As good as it feels to get caught up on paperwork, the inactivity leaves me sleepy and lazy. How do people who have desk jobs do it? I’d weigh at least another hundred pounds and be as mobile as a sloth in my off-hours.
Closing down the computer, I grab my bag and make sure the coffee pot is off, then head to the parking area. I’ve got time to check out the house in Colchester and maybe, if I’m lucky, make it to the gym before dinner.
Chapter Six
It’s Friday night and the house party/concert I’m working at begins in just over an hour. Nausea sets in and this time it’s not medicine-related. I am going to fail tonight. If anything happens, if a guest is drunk and it gets out of hand, I will fail. I can’t do this. What was I thinking? My breath comes quick and short in my chest and my throat feels as narrow as a plastic drinking straw. The edges of my vision become gray. I want to laugh, thinking how ridiculous I must look right now. But there’s no air for laughter, or anything else.
I put my head between my legs and force my body to take one slow, deep breath, then another. The breathing sounds ragged in my ears which are buzzing slightly. I continue: In. Out. In. Out.
Hear No Evil Page 3