by Maggie Pill
After consulting the Weather Channel the next morning, I put long johns under my sweat-pants and Tacoma University sweatshirt and pulled on a hat Faye bought me that looks a little like a periscope. In the worst weather, it allows me to cover everything but my eyes. Today’s temperature didn’t demand that. The air was a crisp ten degrees, but the biting Lake Huron wind was absent, so it wasn’t unbearable for a Michigan native. Once I’d gone a few blocks, I pushed the hood back, relying on the ear-band under it to keep me comfortable.
I vary my morning walks, going in a different direction each day for four days then mixing it up for the next four. Heading west it’s only four blocks to the lake, but from there I turned south, toward a little strip mall where I knew there was a mailbox. After mailing my packet from the night before, I fast-walked to a park where a paved oval track is kept plowed for walkers. A few fast turns around the track got my heart rate up and my lungs pumping. No one else was there, which I prefer. It isn’t that I mind sharing the space, but meeting other walkers leads to suggestions like, “We should partner and encourage each other.” In exercise, as in most things, I’m used to depending on myself.
That brought Rory to mind: Rory and the possibility of a romantic relationship. I’ve been on my own for almost ten years, and after the last time I’d vowed to remain that way. Of three long-term relationships I’d had, two had ended with demands I couldn’t meet. Early in my career, a man I thought I loved had asked me to move to China with him. It turned out I didn’t love him enough to live the gypsy life of an international shipping agent, and I’d returned to Tacoma after only a year.
Some years later, a lawyer I worked with proposed marriage, but he’d expected me to give up my career to raise the large brood of children he envisioned for us. I said goodbye, knowing he wanted a woman I’d never be content to be. Looking back on those relationships, I could hardly recall what either man looked like. But then, I barely recognized that long-ago Barbara Evans, either.
My last and best relationship had been with Hollis, who made no demands and loved me exactly as I was. When ALS took him, our time together was cut short, and what might have been my happily-ever-after became instead the waking-and-sleeping nightmare society gives the innocuous term “care-giving.” Watching him die had been so painful that I’d decided I was better off alone. Like Simon and Garfunkel sang, “An island never cries.”
What did my past say about a future I might have with Rory? He didn’t seem the demanding type who’d insist I give up my home or the agency, but what other problems might arise? Would he hate that I eat out most nights? Would he find it weird that I share my house with my sister and her husband? Would he discover my secret Correction Events and make fun of me or demand I stop so as not to embarrass the police chief?
There’s a lot more to maintaining a relationship than people want to admit.
Jogging lightly to raise my metabolism, I came back to Main, which on road maps is Michigan Highway 9. It was still dark, since sunrise in January comes around 7:30, but as a northbound car passed, I saw the driver’s face in the glow of a street lamp. A hard-looking man in his thirties, he had eyebrows the size of newborn kittens. He watched the road intently and didn’t even glance at me. Once the car had gone by, though, a head rose in the back seat, and a face peered out the rear window.
It was Winston Darrow. It was a split-second impression, but the guy looked terrified.
Staring after the car, I deduced that our client was in more trouble today than he’d been in yesterday, though that had been bad enough.
I continued home, wondering about what I’d seen. The authorities might have sent Darrow from the Bonner County lockup to somewhere else, but it didn’t feel right. There were no official markings on the car, the driver hadn’t been in uniform, and Darrow looked scared. Who had him in custody?
“The FBI,” Glass told me when I contacted him an hour later. He hadn’t answered the phone until precisely 8:00 a.m., and I pictured him alone in his office, putting in billable hours. “He was supposed to come to my office when he was released this morning, but he texted to say a federal officer showed up wanting to interview him.” His tone turned irritated. “I guess the feds come first, but it isn’t like I’ve got nothing else to do.”
As I ended the call, Faye came into the office. I’d heard her moving around earlier, but it’s best to leave her alone until she’s had coffee and at least one cigarette, which she takes on the back porch, shivering in an old flannel shirt that once belonged to our dad. The dog stumped along behind her, gave me a disinterested glance, and curled up under her desk.
As I caught her up on what I’d seen, the phone rang again. It was Glass. “The FBI never sent anyone!”
“What?” Pulling a notepad toward me, I took up a pen. “Tell me everything you can.”
There was a pause, and I sensed Glass trying to gather his thoughts. “After I hung up from talking with you, I called the sheriff’s office. He didn’t know a thing about any FBI agent. I tried to call Winston, but his phone went right to voicemail.”
“Darrow is somewhere with an unknown man who claimed to be a Federal agent but isn’t.” I spoke for Faye’s benefit, and she looked up in surprise.
“That’s right.”
“What did Sheriff Idalski say?”
Glass paused. “That Darrow has lied to us all from the beginning. He stopped just short of saying Win made the whole thing up.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To avoid being charged with his wife’s murder.”
“So the sheriff’s treating this as flight from prosecution rather than kidnapping.”
“I’m afraid so.” Glass paused. “What are you going to do?” Though he’d been unsure about us yesterday, he seemed willing now to let us decide the next step.
“First I’m going to call the sheriff and tell him what I saw. I’ll keep you informed.”
My call to Bonner County was productive in some ways but not in others. On the good side, the sheriff’s tone was collegial. “Chief Neuencamp told me you were looking into things, Ms. Evans,” he said when I identified myself. “Says he’s worked with you and you’re okay.” Rightly or wrongly, crime fiction conditions police officers to think private detectives will work behind their backs. I was grateful to Rory for paving our way.
The sheriff was pleased to learn the direction Darrow had been headed, though he didn’t comment on my impression that he’d been afraid. “We’ll find him,” he told me, “and then we’ll figure this out.” Thanking me for the timely information, he promised to keep in touch.
True to his word, Idalski called back twenty minutes later. “We found the car you described a few miles north of Allport. There were tracks alongside. Someone picked two guys up out there.”
“So at least two people were in on the abduction.”
“Abduction?” I heard disbelief in his voice. “Ms. Evans, can you tell me why somebody would kidnap Darrow?”
I told him then about Basca’s visit, ending with, “My sister says he said “we” a few times, which indicates he isn’t in Allport alone. If Darrow knows what Basca looks like, someone else would have played the fake FBI man.”
“There’s no evidence Darrow didn’t go voluntarily.”
“I saw his face, Sheriff. He was scared.”
“It was dark, though, right? When Darrow texted Glass, he seemed okay.”
“But if he wanted to disappear, why text Glass at all? Why not just go?”
Idalski paused as if weighing his words. “I know you’re supposed to prove the guy didn’t kill his wife, but you have to at least consider that he’s called in some friends to get him out of Michigan.”
“And the fake FBI agent?”
I imagined the shrug that came with his reply. “Darrow could have made that up. He’s no innocent bystander, Ms. Evans.” I pictured him counting points on his fingers. “He was using a false name. He didn’t report his wife’s death. He tried to get her mo
ney out of the bank before anybody found out about it.”
I had to give him that. Liars lie, and I had no proof Darrow wasn’t lying now.
“But why did Basca try to get us to act as go-between?”
His tone changed a little. “Maybe they thought you ladies would cloud the issue.” Use of the term ladies hinted at the sheriff’s prejudices. He considered us gullible, which to some men is a synonym for female.
Setting aside my irritation, I tried again. “Sheriff, isn’t the simplest explanation most likely? Basca wants what Darrow stole, so he grabbed him in order to get it back.”
“Won’t know till we find them.” His tone turned brisk as he wrapped up the call. “We’ve got men on every road out of the area. Once we locate Darrow, we’ll find out what’s going on.”
For the next half hour, Faye and I looked at Darrow’s abduction from every angle we could devise. “What if this isn’t connected to Stacy’s murder at all?” Faye asked at one point. “Suppose that back in New Mexico, Win conned a guy he shouldn’t have, our Mr. Basca. He comes to Michigan, thinking he’s out of Basca’s reach. After Win kills Stacy in a quarrel, the publicity surrounding the murder alerts Basca to where Win is. He comes up here and asks us to help him convince Win to return his stuff. We refuse. Afraid if Win goes to prison for murder he’ll never get his stuff back, Basca sends a guy to grab him the minute he’s released on bail.”
I spun my chair from side to side as I played devil’s advocate. “If Win stole something valuable, why has he been living on his wife’s money for the last two years?”
“Good point.” We stared at the walls, but no answers appeared there. Finally Faye said, “I’ve got paperwork to do on that child custody case. I’d better get at it.”
As she took up the file, a ring sounded. I put a hand on my pocket, but it was Faye’s cell. It took her a while to locate it, but she checked the I.D. “It’s Retta.”
“Hey,” she said, “I was just about to call you—Really? Wait a sec. I’ll put you on speaker so Barb can hear, too.” That took even longer than finding the phone had, but eventually she said, “Okay, Retta, go ahead.”
“I got a strange call from Winston. He needs my help.”
“Where is he?” Faye asked.
“He didn’t say, but he made me promise not to call the cops. He said ‘Don’t call the cops’ several times, but he never said, ‘Don’t call your sisters.’ I think he wanted me to call you.”
“Could be.” Quickly Faye caught her up on the morning’s events. After Retta made noises of surprise and distress, Faye asked her, “What does he want from you?”
“I’m supposed to go out to his house, find this lockbox, and bring it to him.”
“A lockbox?”
“He says it’s a matter of life and death. There’s a book inside it that somebody wants, and they’re threatening to kill him if they don’t get it.”
Faye sighed. “Retta, the sheriff thinks Win’s trying to make it look like someone else killed his wife.”
“The guy is a sociopath, Retta,” I said, raising my voice. “People like him use whoever is available. They have no real feelings for anyone. He appeared to really like you when you were out together, but now you’re just—”
“He’s not lying,” Retta interrupted impatiently. “I heard a man say something in the background, and then he did something to Winston. He was saying that I had to hurry, and all of a sudden he screamed. I think the guy hurt him on purpose.” She paused. “What kind of book would it be?”
My mind cleared suddenly, like my vision does when I put on my glasses. “It’s something Stacy Darrow stole from Max Basca. She knew Basca was looking for her, which is why she never went anywhere, but somehow he found her.”
Faye caught on quickly, but she frowned, asking, “Then why didn’t they get the book before they killed her?”
Nobody had a ready answer, but after a few seconds Retta said, “It doesn’t matter right now. They said they’ll trade Winston for it.”
I shook my head at her ingenuous statement. “They killed Stacy. Darrow won’t live long once they have the book. I’ll call the sheriff and have him intercept them.”
“No! Winston said if there are cops, he’ll be killed.”
I gritted my teeth. “Retta, you can’t—”
She went right on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Besides, our local guys are good with teenage drinkers and shoplifters, but I wouldn’t bet on them handling kidnappers.”
“So what do you propose we do?” I asked in frustration. “Let them kill you, too?”
Knowing Retta, I guessed she’d decided her course, logical or not. “I cannot desert a friend who needs me!”
It’s always like this with her. I could argue with the best of my lawyerly skills and experience. She’d agree and then go on with her plans as if I’d never said a word.
I tried once more. “You can’t go blithely off to meet a couple of killers.”
“I’m not dumb, Barbara. I didn’t just agree to everything they said.”
Suppressing my sarcastic tone, or at least trying to, I asked, “What did you agree to?”
“Well, they wanted to meet out in the middle of nowhere, but I said it had to be where there were people.”
“That’s good.” Faye’s tone was hopeful.
“Unless they don’t care how many people they kill to get this book,” I replied. Faye’s face pinched with dread. “Where is this exchange supposed to happen, Retta?”
“A diner called the Lunch & Munch. It’s about a mile this side of Lawton, a couple of miles from Winston’s house. They said I have exactly one hour to get there.” Her next comment explained the background noise we’d been hearing. “I’m already on the way.”
I should have known.
Rising, I went to a Michigan map on the wall. Faye joined me and put her finger on the spot where the diner was. Having lived somewhere else for decades, I wasn’t familiar with some of the outlying places, but I saw that instead of turning off to Darrow’s house, we’d continue toward Lawton. Allowing for snowy country roads, the drive would take us forty minutes.
Bonner County’s sheriff could get there faster, but would these unknown men carry out their threat and kill Darrow? I thought of calling Rory, but he’d mentioned he’d be in Mt. Pleasant all morning for a conference.
The best thing was for Faye and I to go to the diner. If Darrow was scamming Retta, we could call the sheriff’s men from there. If he was telling the truth, we’d have to try to figure out a way to help. At the very least we’d see that Retta got out of there unharmed.
Retta interpreted our silence as argument and went into boss mode. “Do NOT call the police, Barbara Ann. Once Winston’s safe, we’ll be able to give descriptions of the men who kidnapped him.”
I stared at the map, feeling obligated to do what I could to protect our client, the people at the diner, and our bull-headed sister. Since she had to stop to get the lockbox, we should be able to reach the restaurant before she did.
Faye looked to me, raising her brows in a question. With a sigh I said to Retta, “When you get to that diner, there’ll be two ladies having lunch. Just ignore them, but when the chance comes along, get Darrow out of there as fast as you can.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Faye
The diner was one of those cramped places with a long, beat-up counter, a low ceiling yellowed with age and cooking grease, an open kitchen, and a dozen scarred tables ringed by pressed-wood chairs. Everyone in the place looked up as we entered, and the waitress called casually from behind the counter, “Yous can sit wherever you like.” Barb glanced at the woman darkly in response to her terrible grammar.
While it was possible Basca would show up, Barb thought it unlikely. “Men like him let lesser mortals do the blatantly criminal stuff,” she’d said as we drove, “The guy who grabbed Darrow will make the exchange.”
We chose a table in the back, and I took the chair facing the door. If Ba
sca did show, I’d see him coming and hurry to the ladies’ room before he spotted me. Our greatest asset was surprise, I figured. No one would expect two middle-aged women to abandon their lunchtime chat to stand up and shout, “Stop in the name of the law!”
We’d ordered by the time the bell over the door rang and a cold blast of air hit my ankles. Barb didn’t turn, but I nodded to let her know it was Winston and the guy whose thick brows she’d described to me. Win had a split lip, one eye was swollen shut, and he cradled one hand in the other. He looked terrible.
When he saw us, Win’s face lit. I frowned a warning, and he suppressed his reaction. His companion led the way to a booth near the front, indicating with a gesture that Win should sit facing the door. He took the seat opposite Win, closer to the exit.
The door opened again, letting in a second icy draft. Another man entered, larger and somehow uncivilized-looking, like an animal granted a day in human form. With a glaring glance that sent patrons and staff alike looking at their hands, he sat down next to Win, forcing him toward the wall and pinning him in the booth.
When the waitress brought our lunches, a hot beef sandwich for me and a salad for Barb, she tipped her head toward the three men and asked, “There a Big Time Wrestling event goin’ on somewhere?”
“If there is, we missed it,” I told her.
Lifting her brows expressively, she moved to Win’s table and asked, “Would yous like to see menus?”
The guy with the big brows said tersely, “Just coffee.”
Gesturing at Winston’s face, the woman said teasingly, “I hope the other guy looks worse than you, hon.”
Win said nothing. “He’ll have coffee,” the first man said. The big guy ordered a Pepsi and agreed ungraciously to take Coke instead.
While the waitress fetched their drinks, the three men sat in stony silence, each glancing out the window from time to time. Win turned several times to look at me, and I wished he’d stop. I shouldn’t be that interesting.
After a few minutes the bell rang again, the cold blew in, and Retta entered. She looked perfectly put together, as usual, and I couldn’t help but wonder how she did it. Her married-now-single boyfriend calls with a strange, dangerous request, and she arrives looking like she had all day to get ready.