If I Should Die

by Allison Brennan

  If he even could.

  He put all of it aside to focus on the task at hand.

  “Sorry,” he said to Tim, dismissing his preoccupation. “Just thinking things through. We go in, observe, see who’s talking to whom. Make a point of discussing what’s been happening. Make it clear you’re not going to be scared off, but that maybe holding off on the grand opening is a good idea.”

  “Do you really think we’re going to learn anything?”

  “Someone here knows something. Hell, maybe the whole town is in on it.” He paused. “Do you know James Benson?”

  Tim shook his head. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He worked for Fire and Rescue. He is missing and presumed dead.”

  “What does that have to do with the lodge?”

  “He’s the brother-in-law of Paul Swain. His nephew is the one who set fire to the lodge.”

  Tim straightened his spine and glared at Sean. “Nephew?”

  “Swain’s son.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Sean should have approached this differently. “I don’t trust that deputy,” he said cautiously. “His reactions were atypical, and I find it suspicious that there aren’t more cops in and out of that mine.”

  “You don’t trust many people, do you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I’ll grant you Weddle—I don’t know what to make of him—but he’s not the only cop in St. Lawrence County.”

  “I’ve already put in a request to meet with the detective-sergeant assigned to the case. His secretary called to set up an appointment first thing tomorrow morning. Let’s go inside. I’ll buy you a beer. Anybody asks, you’re postponing the resort.”

  “But I thought—”

  “That was yesterday. Today, let’s play their game. Callahan wanted us to postpone. We give them what they want and see where it leads.”

  They walked in and like last night, conversation halted momentarily as Sean and Tim ambled over to the bar. Even the band in the back hit a sour note. Sean sat down on the bar’s far side, where he could clearly see both the front door and the door leading into the kitchen. The bartender was different from the one the night before—as different as you could get. Instead of old Reggie, this bartender was an attractive female—and one who knew she was hot. With long, curly dark red hair and big green eyes, she wore tight jeans tucked into well-worn boots.

  She smiled as she approached them. “What can I get for you fellas?”

  “Two drafts,” Sean said.

  Conversation resumed as soon as they were seated, though everyone’s attention seemed to be focused on them. Sean observed there were twice as many people tonight as yesterday. It was Friday, after the dinner hour, in a small town and the Lock & Barrel was the only nightlife for miles. Sean never would have survived growing up in a town like Spruce Lake.

  The redhead placed the beers in front of them. Sean noticed two scars on her left forearm. Too high to be a suicide attempt, but definitely a knife attack.

  “I haven’t seen you two before,” the bartender said. “Let me guess—Adam and Tim Hendrickson?”

  “Half right,” Sean said.

  “I’m Tim,” Tim acknowledged. “This is my friend Sean.”

  She smiled brightly, but Sean sensed that she was observing them like specimens. She flirted, but not like Trina, the waitress. This woman was calculating; Sean saw it in her eyes, in the way she seemed attuned to everyone in the room, even though she looked right at him.

  “I didn’t think this town was big enough for two bartenders,” Sean said.

  “Reggie was feeling under the weather; I’m just helping out tonight.”

  “And do you have a name?”

  She extended her hand and smiled seductively. “Bobbie,” she said. She wore rings on nearly every finger; several diamonds and one large emerald stood out. If they were real—and they looked as though they were—she wore thousands of dollars on her hands. If fake, they were expensive fakes.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “I heard about your troubles, Tim. The whole town is talking. I’m so sorry.”

  Tim shrugged. “Well, I really have no choice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to postpone the opening.”

  She frowned dramatically, but Sean didn’t think she was a bit sorry. She looked as if she was playing a part and enjoying every minute of it. “That’s awful.”

  “I thought most of the people here were opposed to the Spruce Lake Resort,” Sean said.

  She shrugged. “I don’t really have an opinion.”

  “Someone shot at me today,” Sean said, watching Bobbie closely.

  “Really? Who?”

  “Don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

  Bobbie’s neck muscles tightened—just briefly, but it was an interesting sign that she was irritated. “How?”

  “I’m a private investigator. I’m pretty good at my job.”

  “Oh! A private eye. Wow. Like Sam Spade?”

  Sean noticed that Bobbie ignored everyone except him and Tim. He found it odd that Trina, not Bobbie, was filling orders. Bobbie was trying hard to sound like a ditz, but her eyes were too sharp and observant. A man in his midtwenties sat at the end of the bar observing the three of them, trying to be discreet, but Sean pegged him as security. Why did Bobbie need security?

  He responded to her query. “Mostly computer work. Boring, really. Nothing like Thomas Magnum.”

  She stared at him blankly. “Who?”

  “From the television show, Magnum, P.I. You’re probably too young to remember—I’m too young to remember—but I caught the reruns.”

  She frowned, a flash of anger in her eyes. Why? Because she didn’t know a television character?

  “I don’t have time for TV,” she snapped and turned away, grabbing a rag from under the bar. “I gotta get back to work, boys,” she said as if they were the ones keeping her.

  “Of course,” Sean said. She halfheartedly wiped down the bar, refilling a couple of drafts on the way without talking to anyone, until she got to the watchful guy at the end. She fixed him a Scotch and soda—light on the Scotch, Sean noted.

  Bobbie was a nickname for Roberta. Was that sly woman Roberta Swain? Did she actually live in Spruce Lake, and if so, when had she moved back from Florida? Patrick hadn’t been able to get a picture of her, but she looked about the right age, early thirties.

  “That conversation was strange,” Tim said quietly.

  “Yep,” Sean concurred. He watched the patrons. Everyone was trying not to look at Bobbie. They seemed deferential. Scared? Maybe. Angry. It was as though the whole town was in on a conspiracy to shut down the resort, and now the big guns were out.

  With Patrick coming into town, Sean could cover a lot more territory and keep an eye on Bobbie the relief bartender. After talking to him last night, Sean suspected that Henry Callahan knew all the town secrets. Maybe Sean could convince him to be forthcoming, even if he had to find a way to protect him.

  “Are you ready to go?” Tim asked. “I don’t think we’re going to learn anything here.”

  “I’ve already learned a lot.” He wasn’t going to discuss what he suspected while they were still here. “It’s only been twenty minutes. I want to see who shows up in the next hour. Since we’ve sat here, four people have stepped out, and now the band.”

  “Probably for a smoke.”

  “Probably,” Sean said, not believing it for a minute. Smoking was the excuse. Someone had called in their sighting, and Sean wanted to know who.

  Sean had swung by Ricky’s house on the way to the bar and his car wasn’t there, nor was there any sign that he’d been home since bolting this afternoon. If Sean could get him to talk, he’d protect the kid himself—or send him far from Spruce Lake. The U.S. Marshals had nothing on the Rogan family when it came to hiding people. But Ricky wou
ld have to be willing to share information and go all the way.

  Could Paul Swain be running a drug operation from prison? Certainly a possibility if he was powerful enough. The police might not think the drug lab was still around, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t moved it nearby, or wasn’t involved in another way.

  Sean knew a bit about the international drug trade—his brother Kane had been fighting drug and human trafficking in South and Central America for twenty years. It was war down there—murder, bribery, corruption. It was the same here, but on a smaller scale. Cleaner. Cops were harder to bribe, though not impossible. Corruption existed, but not as blatant or as widespread.

  But a town like Spruce Lake would be perfect for drug running. Near the Canadian border, remote, with people desperate to survive and no way to get out. The big cities in Canada had the same drug and gang problems as big cities in America.

  What was it about the resort that scared them? Drug labs were everywhere, littering both urban and rural areas. A resort in the middle of nowhere shouldn’t slow them down. Unless there was something about the location …

  Sean had left the property maps in the cabin. Spruce Lake, the actual lake itself, was split between Hendrickson, Callahan, and federal land. But he didn’t see how that would be crucial to the dealers. There had to be something else going on that the few people the resort would bring in would jeopardize.

  Maybe it wasn’t drugs. Maybe it was something else entirely. Which brought Sean back to: who would be hurt the most if the resort opened?

  What bothered him at this point was the extent of the conspiracy. There had to be at least two people, other than Ricky and his uncle, who were involved. And a large number of people knew about it, and were either intimidated into keeping silent or part of the problem.

  The swinging door leading from the kitchen burst open and Jon Callahan entered. He stopped abruptly at the sight of Bobbie.

  She turned around and smiled. “Hello, Jon!” she said and waved from the opposite end of the bar.

  Callahan didn’t speak. He looked around at the patrons, most of whom had cut their conversation down to a whisper. Something in his face shifted, and he smiled. “Would you be so kind, sugar, and pour me a Scotch?” He sat down next to Tim.

  Bobbie slammed a glass on the counter in front of him.

  “Don’t call me ‘sugar,’ Boss,” she snapped. The two stared at each other a beat too long.

  “The Jameson will be fine,” Callahan said.

  She splashed a shot into the glass, then strode back across the bar to her security.

  Callahan nodded at Tim. “Things okay out at your place today?”

  “Other than some prick taking potshots at my friend,” Tim said. Now that he was into the game, Tim was doing well, Sean thought. He let Tim run with the conversation.

  “I didn’t know,” Callahan said. “I was in Montreal all day. Just got back.”

  “No one was hurt,” Tim continued, “but I was thinking about what you told Adam last night. Maybe it would be best if we postponed the opening. I don’t know who’s screwing with me, but I can’t take the responsibility of protecting my guests from some gun-toting lunatic. Adam is really torn up about it.”

  “He has his heart set,” Callahan agreed, “but it’s not forever. I’m sure things will get all smoothed over. And I’m happy to help with that over the next year.”

  “Thanks, Jon. I appreciate it.”

  Sean was missing a big piece of the puzzle. He watched the crowd. Everyone was focused on Jon and Bobbie, as if they were waiting for something to happen.

  Sean decided to add fuel to the fire. “I didn’t think this town was big enough for two bartenders. Reggie was cute and all, but the redhead is cuter,” he said with a wink.

  “Reggie deserves some time off,” Jon said. “I didn’t know when I’d be back from Montreal.”

  Sean hadn’t expected that answer. Obviously, Jon hadn’t known Bobbie was going to be here. He observed the way his eyes watched her in the mirror behind the bar. Was this a turf war? Over a town of fewer than four hundred people?

  Sean glanced around the bar again. No one was ordering anything, food or drink. Trina stood at a table in the far corner with two older men and an even older woman. Conversation was virtually nonexistent. The band was still out on break.

  “Any news about the body in the mine?” Jon asked suddenly.

  “Not that I know,” Sean said.

  “Did you check the missing persons in the area?”

  “Yes, we looked through them. No one matched.”

  “I didn’t know you saw the body,” Jon said. “Didn’t you say it was your girlfriend who found her? What an awful experience for such a sweet girl.”

  Sean didn’t deny having seen the body, though Deputy Weddle and the Fire and Rescue guys knew that only Lucy had seen it. Sean’s protective instincts kicked in. Was Lucy in danger because she was the only person to have seen Agent Sheffield?

  He discreetly sent Lucy a text message to check in and make sure she was all right while telling Jon, “Yeah, but Lucy’s tough. She works at a morgue.”

  “Still, that must have been a shock.”

  “I think it was more of a shock that the body disappeared,” Sean said. He watched Bobbie in his peripheral vision. Her head was turned away from them, toward the bodyguard, but her body language—the way her feet were pointed, her hair tucked behind her ear and her body turned just a bit too much in his direction—told Sean she was listening intently.

  “How long are you staying on?” Jon asked casually. Too casually. Bobbie was definitely listening for the answer.

  Sean shrugged. Bobbie looked over her shoulder, ostensibly to inspect her patrons’ beers, but she made no attempt to refill their empty mugs.

  Sean glanced at Tim. “It hasn’t been much of a vacation, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sorry about that.”

  Sean shook his head. “No worries. Lucy and I were talking about sticking around for a few days. Try to relax, give my leg a couple more days to get back full mobility. And I promised Deputy Weddle we’d be available for questions whenever the detective assigned to the arson comes around. I’ve never seen such disinterested police before.”

  “Odd,” Jon said. “They are usually so responsive.”

  Bobbie sauntered over. “Can I get you boys refills?”

  She wanted to talk. Sean didn’t want another beer, but he nodded. “Thanks—Bobbie, right?”

  She grinned. “That’s right, sugar.” She poured two more drafts for him and Tim. She glanced at Jon, and he held up his glass. She grabbed a bottle off the shelf and poured two fingers while glaring at Jon.

  Sean had a sudden idea. He and Tim should hit Henry Callahan now, while his nephew was here. He didn’t know how much time he’d have, but if they left and sped over there, he might have ten, fifteen minutes.

  He drained half his beer. Tim gave him an odd look. Sean made a motion that he wanted to leave. He glanced at his phone. Lucy had responded to his message.

  I’m fine. All quiet. You?

  Good, she was safe for now, but he sent her a message to be diligent and to say he’d be late. He then inconspicuously snapped a no-flash picture of Bobbie. It was not quite three-quarters of a profile shot, but Sean couldn’t risk getting closer or waiting until she was looking at him.

  The band returned from their break and started tuning up their instruments. Sean used the disruption to stand, stretch, and put twenty dollars on the bar. “Jon, good to see you again. My leg’s acting up; I think we’re going to call it an early night.”

  “Stop by before you leave town,” Jon said. “I’ll buy you lunch for the road.”

  “Thank you, I’ll do that.” Sean tipped an imaginary hat to Bobbie. He sent the picture to Duke and Patrick when he walked outside and began to text. The air had turned much colder now that the sun was down.

  Says her name is Bobbie. Possibly Roberta Swain. Five feet six inches, 125 lbs, da
rk red hair, might be dyed darker than natural, but is natural redhead (eyebrows). Has bodyguard or boyfriend who is in security. Approx. 180, five ten to six feet, blond, blue, possibly Russian or Scandinavian descent. Need to confirm Bobbie’s identity, run through all databases.

  “What was that about?” Tim asked.

  “One sec,” Sean said as he finished typing his message and sent it. “More work for my brother,” he said with a grin.

  He unlocked his truck. On the driver’s seat was a torn slip of paper. Unlike the first warning this morning, this was scrawled in small, hurried block letters, but Sean knew it was from the same person.

  Sean looked around, his hand on his gun. He didn’t see anyone. He carefully picked up the paper, using the tips of his fingers to hold it by the corners.

  I TOLD YOU TO GO HOME. NOW YOU CAN’T.

  THEY HAVE YOUR GIRL’S FLIGHT SCHEDULE.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ricky parked at the abandoned farm behind Skyline Bible Church, then trudged through the fallow fields until he reached church property. He’d driven the back roads for hours, thinking about running away. But how could he? He had nothing. Finally, at sundown, he returned to town. He’d waited in the pine trees on the edge of the church parking lot for an hour until Reverend Browne finally left. He sat completely still, not thinking or feeling anything because he didn’t want to cry. It was dark when Ricky slipped from his hiding place and ran across the street to the dimly-lit cemetery where he visited his mother at least once a week. Where soon he would visit his uncle Jimmy.

  His grandfather, Lawson Swain, was buried here, but Ricky hadn’t known him. He’d been convicted of murder when Ricky was three, and all he remembered was that Lawson had smelled of tobacco, rarely spoke, and when he did his voice was deep and scary and Ricky didn’t know why his mother would squeeze him tight whenever they were in the same room as his grandfather. Ricky didn’t remember anything about the trial and had never seen his grandfather again, until he was buried in this cemetery when Ricky was nine. That was two years before his father went to prison. Three years before he returned to bury his mother.