by Alice Sharpe
The car was a hell of a lot faster than a horse, but he sure wished he had a shotgun and a better idea of what he would find when he got there.
And he hoped against hope that he wasn’t too late.
Chapter Thirteen
Sierra hadn’t spent much time in Dusty Lake since her father died. Rollo Bean had been out of the country and unable to come to the funeral so it had been even longer since she’d seen him.
Her dad had loved it here, had hoped to become the town’s mayor, but that hadn’t worked out. The race seemed to sour him on politics and he took up fishing when he lost the election. He’d told her the week before he died that he wished he’d figured out fishing beat politics all to hell a lot earlier in his life.
This far into the winter, the tree branches were bare and ice shimmered on the lake surface. The skies were as gray as the water and laced with threatening clouds promising showers. She parked next to a large white car sporting two Maxwell Jakes for NYC Mayor bumper stickers and assumed it belonged to Rollo Bean. He wasn’t in the car. There was a van parked next to that and a big truck across the lot. The sign hanging under the painted fish over the door said Closed, but that was about the only other place to look. As she approached, the door opened and a man stepped out.
“Sierra Hyde, you haven’t changed a bit,” he called.
Her mouth almost dropped open. “Rollo?”
“Rolland now, please. Tony came in early, saw me sitting out there in my car and insisted I come in out of the cold.” He glanced at his watch and added, “I’m running late so let’s just talk here, okay?”
“Sure,” she said and brushed past him as she entered the tavern. It was hard to reconcile this trim man with the chubby Rollo Bean she’d known as a kid; he’d lost about half his body mass. “You look very dapper,” she said when they faced each other. He wore a crisp white shirt and a black vest with a blue tie. A gold watch sparkled on his wrist.
“Your dad gave me this watch,” Rollo said when he saw what had caught her attention. “Do you remember it?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t. It’s very attractive.”
“And distinctive,” he said, pointing out the four rubies set into the face, one at each quarter hour. “I thought for sure you’d recall it when you saw it. Come sit down. I took the liberty of ordering something hot to chase away the chill.”
He led her back to a table across from the booth Natalia and the man who looked like Spiro Papadakis had occupied a week before.
So much had happened in such a short time.
Rollo—she just could not think of him as Rolland—poured them each a mug of coffee from the gold carafe sitting on the table. He took a sip of his and emitted a satisfied sigh. “I’m glad you called me,” he said. “I’ve heard you’re working as a PI now.”
She was surprised that he’d kept up with her career. “Yes,” she said.
“Do you remember the time I brought a lady friend to your father’s place? She said she was from France, do you recall? But you told me privately that you thought she was from Quebec. There was something about her accent, you said.”
“I was just a kid,” Sierra said. “Apparently kind of an obnoxious one.”
“On the contrary. You were absolutely right about her. You have a knack for accents and voices, don’t you?”
Her brow wrinkled. As a matter of fact, she did, but what was this all about?
“Like my Jersey accent, right? It’s distinctive and regional. Like my son’s.”
“I suppose,” Sierra said.
“Combine that with a naturally curious mind and, well, I can see why you’re successful at your craft. Now, what exactly is bothering you?”
Quite a lot is bothering me, Sierra thought as she bought thinking time with another swallow of coffee. Things like the feel inside this tavern and Rollo’s out-of-context comments that nevertheless were right on point. There was a shrewd look in his eyes as he stared at her, a familiar look that made her wish she’d waited for Pike. It also telegraphed caution.
“You look confused,” he said.
She sipped again and wondered if she had the audacity to just get up and leave.
“About that curiosity factor of yours,” he said when she remained seated and thoughtful. “Did I mention that besides having my stomach stapled and plastic surgery on my nose and chin I also bought a fantastic wig straight from Paris? Do you wonder what I look like in it?”
Not really, she thought, but managed to mumble, “I’m sure...you...look great.” The warmth from the coffee sliding down her throat felt good in part because her head had started to swim. And then her thoughts flashed back to the old gold mine. The men were talking to each other. They had Jersey accents, just like Rollo’s. That’s what had been bugging her.
She blinked as she met his gaze. She was in trouble and she knew it, but she wasn’t a hundred percent sure why. Her gun was in her purse, which was hanging by its strap from the back of her chair. “What’s going...on?” she said, alarmed at how difficult it was to speak. She looked at the cup in her hand and then at his. He took a healthy swallow... Had he put something in her mug before he poured her coffee? “You’re...Dad’s...friend.”
“Friend? No, there are no friends in politics. Frankly, it was a relief when he quit. He didn’t have the stomach for it. I’m on to bigger and better things and nothing, or no one, is going to ruin it. Now, about my new look. Let me satisfy your curiosity.” He opened a box that sat on the chair beside him and took out an expensive-looking wig of shiny white hair. He pulled it over his head, adjusted it quickly and peered at her. “Did I get it on straight? I’m used to a mirror. Okay, what do you think? Do I look distinguished?”
She stared at him with wide eyes. His surface resemblance to Spiro Papadakis was nothing short of amazing. Maybe their mothers could have told them apart, but in a bar at night—it could throw anyone off.
Did this mean Savannah’s friend had seen Rollo in this bar and jumped to the conclusion it was Spiro? Was the whole thing nothing more than a giant mistake? But wait, if it was Rollo, then he’d been sitting here with Natalia right before she disappeared.
All those dreams about bald men taunting her, tackling her, calling her an idiot—had she somehow recognized Rollo despite the changes to his appearance?
Sierra put the cup of coffee down too hard and it slopped onto her hands. Rollo shoved a napkin toward her and she stared at it, unable to make sense of what was happening. Her eyelids drooped; her muscles felt spongy. The gun might as well be hanging from the Statue of Liberty’s upraised torch.
She looked at the coffee staining her fingers then back at Rollo. He had two faces now and she internally groaned. “You—you...” she sputtered but the rest of the words wouldn’t come.
He lowered his voice and leaned toward her. “The minute I saw you wearing those photo glasses, I knew you were up to no good, and what else could it be but to catch me with Natalia? That was bad enough, but later that night when the other whore...died...well, your fate was sealed. When I found out you were leaving town, I stole your computer. Isn’t the information age grand? Your whole life, the past, the present, right there before me and actually moving forward as you scurried around like a busy mouse telling all your buddies every little detail of everything you saw and thought and did. I deduced from all your communications that you didn’t know it was me in here that night, but I also knew you had questions and that meant you’d keep digging and eventually you’d put two and two together. And if you ever wised up and looked closer at the watch, I was dead meat.
“Tony and his stupid idiot pal were supposed to get rid of you in Idaho, but Sierra, dear, you’re like a cockroach! Then this morning you wouldn’t open your door to let him in. And just when I was trying to figure out what to do next, you announce you’re going to the Papadakis apa
rtment. I responded to you by using Savannah’s tablet. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but I thought I could work with it. And then, you actually call me! What a lovely turn of events. The fly came to the spider.”
Another man walked up to the table. This one was a bulky, clumsy-looking guy about Sierra’s age, meaty through the shoulders in a too-tight plaid shirt. The flagrant mustache was gone, but she knew she’d seen him last in front of her apartment talking on his phone. The white car in the parking lot—Rollo’s car—must have been the vehicle that picked him up. The man smiled as he gazed down at her and she cringed. Those eyes. Anthony. Tony.
“Welcome to my tavern, Sierra. Sorry the coffee...disagreed with you.”
That voice! She pushed herself away from the table and tried to stand, but her knees started to buckle. She grabbed for her purse and missed it. Anthony hoisted her to her feet and flung her across one shoulder.
Her head just about exploded against his back. “You know where to put her. We’ll take care of...disposal...later.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. Just get her car out of the parking lot in case someone comes looking.”
Sierra was conscious of being carried across the room, her dangling hands hitting the backs of chairs. She blacked out for a while and came to when she landed on a hard, cold surface. She had somehow acquired tape around her ankles and hands, and a gag in her mouth. Her eyes sprang open. Another woman lay beside her. Natalia!
And then a loud rattling noise heralded darkness and a welcome return to oblivion.
* * *
PIKE PULLED INTO Tony’s Tavern. The place had a Closed sign on the door even though it was almost four o’clock in the afternoon. He’d hit a bad accident halfway between New York and here and had been held up for what seemed like forever. He’d called the Dusty Lake police as he waited for traffic to clear and asked them to check out the tavern and Rollo Bean’s residence. They hadn’t sounded real motivated but someone had eventually called him back and told him there was a sign on the tavern saying it was closed due to illness and no one named Rollo Bean lived in or around Dusty Lake.
While he’d waited for the police to call him back, he’d looked up Rollo Bean’s number and called him, too. No answer. Where in the hell was everybody? Now he tried one last time to contact Sierra, grimacing when the phone switched directly to messages.
What did he do now?
He got out of the rental, grateful to stand after hours of sitting. There were two other vehicles in the parking lot, a newish gray van and a large white truck, both with New Jersey plates, which meant Sierra’s car wasn’t here. As he walked by the van, he checked the interior through the window and saw fast food wrappers and a clipboard. No sign of Sierra.
He walked over to the box truck. It appeared to be about fifteen feet long and had seen better days. Pike wouldn’t want to take it out on the interstate. It was also outfitted with refrigeration. The low hum of a compressor kicked on as he examined the solid lock on the rear door. He continued on to the tavern, read the sign the police had mentioned and knocked loudly, surprised when the door actually opened and a man appeared.
He was a big guy in his thirties and he looked a little sweaty despite the cold. He wore a green plaid shirt buttoned all the way up to the beginnings of a double chin. His hairline had started to retreat up his forehead, emphasizing his eyes. One gray, one brown, both narrowed.
Again the cold hard facts presented themselves: Sierra had come here to meet a friend and that friend had a grown son with different-colored eyes who was now standing in front of him.
Pike’s original intention had been to ask around and see if someone had seen Sierra, but now he decided to be more casual about it. This guy had the look and smell of a cornered bull.
“Sorry to bother you,” he began with a smile. “I have plans to meet a buddy here for a beer but it looks like you’re closed.”
“We are,” the man said and started to shut the door.
Pike tried stalling. “Can I wait here for my friend?”
“What? No. We’re closed.”
“How about I buy a beer and wait inside? It looks like it’s going to rain.”
“What part of closed don’t you get?”
“Maybe the owner—”
“I’m the owner and I say get lost.” The door slammed and a lock clicked in place.
Okay, so that was Rollo Bean’s son. Someone matching his vague description had left with Savannah Papadakis. This was the place Sierra had come to meet Rollo Bean and since announcing that intention, she hadn’t responded to any of his calls. He could almost feel her vibes lingering here. He wanted desperately to get inside that bar.
In case he was being watched, he walked back to the rental and drove out of the lot, pulling in behind an abandoned bait store a half block away. He got out of the car and sprinted back to the tavern, this time approaching from the rear and keeping low. There was a door at the back that was locked, but there was another around the corner next to the garbage cans that was open. He slipped inside the tavern and found himself in an empty kitchen. The place was poorly lit and ominously quiet except for the sound of Anthony speaking on the phone somewhere deeper inside.
Pike had worked in a similar joint during college and could guess the layout of this one. He methodically began searching for some sign of Sierra. She wasn’t in the basement, where food was stored, nor was she in the walk-in refrigerator or freezer. He peeked through a window connecting the kitchen to the main room. Anthony held a phone to his face as he paced up and down between tables and chairs. There was no one in there with him.
Pike pulled off his boots and carried them as he made his way down a dark hallway that connected to another, where he discovered the bathrooms. Empty. All this time his heart stayed lodged in his throat because his head kept telling him Anthony was coming apart at the seams, and if Sierra was here, she was probably hurt or dead.
The thought bruised his heart so deeply it made breathing hard, and he pushed it away. He ducked through an open door and found himself in an office lit only with a gooseneck desk lamp. He checked out the closet. When he turned to leave he noticed a strap of black leather jammed in a file drawer built into the desk. He pulled the drawer open.
A woman’s handbag had been stuffed inside. Sierra carried one much like it, but so did a million other women. The zipper was open, and using one hand he moved aside the scattered contents until he saw a bright pink wallet. He recognized that immediately. There was no sign of a gun. In the next instant he realized the voice out in the tavern had gone quiet. A creaking floorboard nearby sent his heart into overdrive.
There wasn’t time to do more than slide the drawer shut and hide behind the open door. Things were going to go sour fast if the man closed himself in the office.
The room suddenly came alive with the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing. Furniture moved, a chair squeaked. Next came a grunt and a muttered oath. The door suddenly flew away from Pike and his heart leaped into his throat, but Anthony had closed it behind him as he left and now his footsteps receded down the hall. Pike cautiously let out his breath and walked to the desk. The handbag was gone. He quietly turned the handle on the door and peeked into the empty corridor.
A door slammed some distance away and the building instantly took on the silence of abandonment. Pike ran to look out the front window of the tavern and saw Anthony walking toward the big truck, Sierra’s handbag in his hand. He unlocked the back of the truck, threw the handbag inside and relocked it. Then he walked to the driver’s door and opened the door to the cab.
Pike pulled on his boots and hightailed it back to the kitchen, letting himself out the way he’d come in. He peered around the corner of the building, expecting to see the truck rolling out of the lot, but it hadn’t moved at all. His phone was in his hand. He’d get the pol
ice onto that truck no matter what he had to tell them, but he wanted a license number. He started circling closer, threading his way through the lakeside trees. It started raining and big, cold drops hit his bare head.
Anthony climbed out of the truck, patted all his pockets and began walking back to the restaurant. He kept his head down as he moved, obviously preoccupied. Pike kept moving so that by the time the guy was back at the tavern, Pike was right next to the truck.
As soon as the door closed behind Anthony, Pike checked the lock on the back. He pounded his fist against the rolling metal door and called Sierra’s name. There was no response and no time to think—he had to trust his gut and his gut said that the truck had some connection to Sierra. He ran around to the open driver’s door and climbed inside. The engine wasn’t running and there wasn’t a key in sight. The truck keys and the lock keys must be on separate rings.
The old vehicle had a lot in common with the tank truck back on the ranch. How many times had he and his brothers had to hot-wire that old beast? He reached into his pocket for his multitool and then remembered he hadn’t been able to bring it on the plane. A rusty toolbox on the floor yielded a gold mine. First a pair of pliers that he used to unscrew the nut holding the ignition in place. With that gone, he pulled the ignition unit free, found a pocketknife in the toolbox and cut the wires. He chanced a look in the rearview mirror. Anthony was two thirds of the way back across the lot, headed for the truck. Pike touched the wires to each other until he found a spark. The engine turned over with a roar and actually sprang to life. He twisted the wires together and hoped for the best.
Anthony was at the rear of the truck now and he’d produced a handgun. Just as Pike pushed down on the accelerator, he felt the rear of the truck dip and realized Anthony had jumped for the rear bumper. There were grab bars back there; presumably, Anthony was holding on for dear life.