THE JACK REACHER FILES: THE GIRL FROM THE WRONG SIDE OF CORDIAL (with Bonus Thriller THE BLOOD NOTEBOOKS)

by Jude Hardin

  I’d tried Thrasher’s number earlier, soon after talking with Everett Parks. I’d left a message, but he still hadn’t called me back.

  I tried the number again. Straight to voicemail again. I left another message, but I wasn’t very optimistic about him returning my call.

  I punched in the number for DP’s Barbecue. The lady who answered the phone said Thrasher wasn’t there. She said that the manager on duty was a guy named Harold Wells. I could hold if I wanted to, but Harold was very busy helping the bartender right now and it might be a while. I told her to forget about it. I decided to drive over there and talk to Harold in person. Barbecue sounded good anyway. The steak I’d bought at Rita’s would keep for tomorrow.

  DP’s was in a strip mall, nestled between an accountant’s office and a used book store. If your windows are down, you can smell the wood burning and the meat cooking about a block before you get there. I parked and walked inside and sat at a table in the lounge. All the stools at the bar were taken. Guys with beers and shots, women with martinis and margaritas. Lots of khakis and polos and deck shoes. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, talking and laughing as a group, as if they all knew each other. Which they probably did. It was probably a large party waiting to be seated in the dining room. A waitress came by and I asked for a bourbon on the rocks, told her I’d probably be getting something to go. She brought the drink and a paper carryout menu a few minutes later.

  “And I need to speak with Harold Wells,” I said.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “No.”

  “I think he’s pretty busy right now, but—”

  “Give him this.”

  I handed her a business card. She looked at it, nodded and walked away. I didn’t tell her my reason for being there. I figured Harold Wells might get unbusy quicker if he didn’t know. Almost everyone has at least one thing that they don’t want revealed. Something embarrassing, or maybe even illegal. Almost everyone gets a little nervous when they find out a private investigator is hanging around.

  I looked at my watch, and then I looked up at the bar. The people sitting there were starting to get up from their stools. I guessed their table in the dining room was ready. I predicted that Harold Wells would step up to my table in the lounge and introduce himself in about three minutes.

  He was there in two.

  I stood and we shook hands. I sat back down, and Harold sat in the chair across from me. Bald. Chubby. Small pointy teeth. He wore a cream-colored shirt and a striped tie. The shirt had some sort of red stain on it. Strawberry daiquiri, maybe, since he’d been helping the bartender.

  “I’m here regarding an employee named Kei Thrasher,” I said.

  “He didn’t show up for his shift last night. He’s fired.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “What’s this about, anyway? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  I explained the situation.

  “I don’t know if he’s going to be in trouble or not,” I said. “But at this point I have to wonder if he was involved in—”

  “You think he kidnapped her?”

  “I wouldn’t want to speculate. It’s just as possible that she willingly went somewhere with him. They could have flown out to Vegas and gotten married for all I know. Or maybe it’s all just a bizarre series of coincidences. Anna quitting her job and moving out of her apartment, Kei not showing up for work, neither of them answering their phones or returning their messages. Maybe they’re not even together. It’s too early to say.”

  “Thrasher was here last Wednesday night,” Harold said. “That was the last time I saw him. Like I said, he was supposed to work last night, but he didn’t come in and he didn’t call.”

  “Did you send someone to his place of residence to check on him?” I said.

  “Like who?”

  “Like the police. When someone just doesn’t show up for—”

  “This is a restaurant, Mr. Retro. People quit without notice all the time. But I bet you Thrasher comes in Friday for his final paycheck. They all want their money. I’ve been doing this for a while, and nobody has left any behind yet.”

  “Will you be here Friday?” I said.

  “Open to close.”

  “Would you please give me a call if he comes in?”

  “Sure. No problem. Want me to try to stall him until you can get over here and talk to him?”

  “I’ll let you know. It probably won’t be necessary. I’m sure I’ll know a lot more by Friday. I’m hoping this whole thing will be resolved by then.”

  “All right. Just give me a call if you need anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  We stood and shook hands again, and then Harold disappeared around the corner, hurrying on back to the areas of a restaurant that customers never see, hurrying on back to do whatever it is restaurant managers do. A little bit of everything, I supposed.

  I picked up my drink and moved to the bar. The big party was gone. All the seats were vacant now. The bartender was rinsing out a blender. His nametag said Desmond.

  “Can I get you anything?” he said.

  “Can I place a carryout order up here?”

  “Sure.”

  He set the blender on its base and dried his hands and grabbed a notepad.

  “Let me get a full rack of ribs,” I said. “Green beans and coleslaw.”

  “Cornbread or garlic bread?”

  “Garlic bread.”

  “Okay. I’ll go put this in right now.”

  “Thanks.”

  He walked away, leaving the lounge unattended for the moment. I looked around. Nobody was sitting at any of the tables. I had the room to myself. I stood and leaned over the bar and looked down at the area underneath the counter. There was a triple sink with some dirty glasses on one side and some clean ones on the other. I saw a cutting board and a long serrated knife and some fresh pineapple rings that someone had been slicing into wedges. There was a stainless steel shaker cup and a strainer and a long spoon with a twisted handle. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I knew that Kei Thrasher had been working there a few nights ago. It would have been great if he had forgotten his wallet or his cell phone or something, but I didn’t see anything like that. It was all just standard stuff that you might find behind any bar anywhere.

  I hadn’t expected to find anything useful back there, but you never know. You can’t assume that you’re not going to hit pay dirt by being aggressively nosy.

  I eased back into my seat. Desmond returned to his station behind the bar a couple of minutes later. He handed me a guest check.

  “I went ahead and put your drink on there, too,” he said.

  “Great.”

  I took some cash out of my pocket and paid him. He closed the check out at the register on the other side of the bar and brought me a receipt and my change. Four dollars and fifty-seven cents.

  “It’s probably going to be about ten more minutes on your food,” he said. “Would you like another drink?”

  “No thanks. But I would like a minute of your time, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m a private investigator. I was just talking to your manager about an employee named Kei Thrasher.”

  “Yeah. Didn’t show up last night. I guess he quit.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “We worked together sometimes. That’s about it.”

  “Did he ever mention a woman named Anna Parks?”

  “I don’t think so. Not that I can recall.”

  I pulled a fifty dollar bill out of my pocket, held it down on the bar with my fingertips.

  “Memory’s a funny thing,” I said. “Sometimes all it takes is a little nudge for everything to come flooding back.”

  He looked down at the fifty. He was thinking about it.

  “I’d like to help you out,” he said. “But I really don’t know that much about Kei. We worked together sometimes, like I said, but he never said much
about his personal life.”

  I put the money back in my pocket. Desmond kept wiping his hands on the bar towel clipped to his belt. Three times since he’d brought my change from the register. He was nervous about something. I had a hunch that he knew more than he was telling me.

  I slid a business card across the bar.

  “Give me a call if you think of anything,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe there’s someone else I could talk to. One of the other employees. Did Kei have a close personal relationship with anyone here at the restaurant?”

  “I don’t think so. He pretty much kept to himself. We invited him to go out and party after work a few times, but he always said he needed to get on home.”

  A young lady with long blond hair stepped behind the bar and handed Desmond a brown paper grocery bag that had been folded at the top and stapled. Desmond set the bag next to my rocks glass, which was empty now except for a small amount of bourbon-flavored water from the melted ice.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I downed the last few drops from my glass, folded the one dollar bills on the bar in front of me and stuffed them into the wine carafe Desmond was using for a tip jar. I dropped the fifty-seven cents into my coat pocket, grabbed the paper bag and headed toward the door.

  8

  Everett Parks had given me Anna’s last known address, the apartment she’d abruptly moved away from. I drove over there the next morning, intending to talk to the couple who managed the property. The McFaddens. I knocked on the door to their office, but nobody answered. The sign said 9:00 A.M. TO 5:00 P.M. MONDAY-FRIDAY, 9:00 A.M. TO 1:00 P.M. SATURDAY, CLOSED SUNDAY. It was Wednesday, so someone should have been in the office. There was a number to call in case of emergency. I wondered what qualified. A private investigator looking for a former tenant probably didn’t. I called the number anyway. Got voicemail, left a message, decided to walk on up to the second floor and see what I could see.

  There weren’t any curtains on the front window of the apartment Anna had been renting. I cupped my hands against the glass and peered into the space. It was an open floor plan. The beige carpet was a shade lighter where some furniture had been, and the beige walls were a shade lighter where some pictures had been. There was a box of trash bags on the floor. Big ones. Lawn and leaf bags. Otherwise, the apartment was empty. The part I could see, anyway. The living room and the dining room and part of the kitchen. Maybe there was some furniture in the bedroom, but I doubted it.

  Apparently someone had started cleaning the place, hence the trash bags. I wondered why they’d been left behind. I could see the shiny black plastic through the opening in the box. It didn’t appear as though many of the bags had been used. Maybe someone was still working on the initial cleanup. Maybe there was still some stuff in the refrigerator or something.

  I tried the door. It was locked. I decided to walk back down to my car and wait for the McFaddens. I was almost to the stairwell when a voice from behind me said, “How you doing?”

  I turned around, saw a man standing there smoking a cigarette in front of the apartment next door to Anna’s. The one to the right of hers, so a little closer to the stairs. The man wore jeans and a black T-shirt and a pair of flip-flops. He could have used a comb and a razor. And some exercise.

  I walked over to where he was standing.

  “Cam Retro,” I said.

  “Jack Gilmore.”

  We shook hands.

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Did you know the woman who used to live here?”

  “Ms. Parks?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know her very well. Just in passing.”

  “I was hoping to talk with the property managers,” I said. “But they’re not in the office right now.”

  Jack dropped his cigarette on the concrete walkway, smashed it with the toe of his flip-flop.

  “They never seem to be there when you need them,” he said.

  “I guess I’ll go downstairs and wait a while. Thanks for your time.”

  “No problem. When I heard someone walking around out here, I thought it might be guy I met the other day.”

  “What guy?” I said.

  “I forget what he said his name was. He was moving into the vacant apartment.”

  “This one?” I said, pointing toward the unit where Anna Parks had been living.

  “Yeah. He was over there cleaning the place up. I thought you were him. I was going to give him these back.”

  He pulled a book of matches out of his pocket. DP’s Barbecue. I could see the name and the logo, although part of the cover had been torn away.

  “Can I see those?” I said.

  He handed me the matches.

  “I haven’t seen the guy around since he gave me those,” he said. “That was a few days ago. I bought a new lighter, so I thought he might want the matches back.”

  “What happened to the cover?” I said.

  “He tore part of it off. I think there was something written on the inside of it. A phone number, probably. I’ve done that before. You know, when you meet someone at a club or somewhere. You borrow a pen and write on whatever’s handy.”

  I slid the matches into my back pocket and handed him a business card.

  “Call me right away if you see the guy again,” I said. “I think I know who it was. I’m looking for him, too, in connection with Anna Parks.”

  “I wish I could remember his name.”

  “Was it Kei?”

  “Yeah. That was it. I’ll give you a call if I see him.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walked downstairs and sat in my car and waited. It was a nice day. Sunny and cool and breezy. I rolled the windows down and turned the radio on. I could see the office door from where I was parked. I sat there for almost an hour, started to get sleepy, thought about closing my eyes and taking a short nap when the wind shifted and a sour smell came wafting into my car. It was pretty bad. I looked to my left and saw the source, an overflowing dumpster on the other side of the parking lot.

  I climbed out of my car and walked over there. I’d figured the trash from Anna’s apartment was long gone, but maybe not. Maybe the dumpster only got emptied once a week. Or maybe someone was supposed to call the service and have it emptied as needed. The McFaddens didn’t seem like very good managers. Maybe they’d been as neglectful about the trash as they had been about their posted office hours.

  The closer I got to the dumpster, the worse it smelled. Inside the container there were some pizza boxes and banana peels and an old throw rug and dozens of bulging white plastic trash bags, everything heaped in a mound and spilling over the sides like a giant garbage sundae. I moved a few of the white bags out of the way, caught a glimpse of the shiny black lawn and leaf bags I’d been hoping to find. They were close to the bottom, and there was no way for me to reach them without climbing into the dumpster.

  So I did.

  Which was no easy task.

  I grabbed onto the steel lip and pushed myself up and swung one leg over the side, straddling the rim for a second and then lifting the other leg and sliding feet-first down into the rubbish. It smelled horrible. You never think about some of the absolutely putrid refuse that human beings discard on a daily basis until you’re waist-deep in it. I thought about how this was only one of many apartment complexes in the area, and about all the houses like mine with a couple of cans at the curb every week, and about how Amberjack Heights was only one small town among hundreds in the state of Florida, and about the big cities like Tampa and Miami and Jacksonville, and about how Florida was only one state and the United States was only one country and so forth. I started wondering about all the garbage all over the world, where it went and how long it would be before the entire planet resembled the mess I was standing in.

  I grabbed the two black lawn and leaf bags and heaved them over the side, and then I climbed back out of the dumpster. It was easier to climb out than it had been to c
limb in, because now I had things to stand on. Stinky squishy things, but they still helped.

  I carried the bags over to my car and put them in the trunk. I was picking some eggshells and other bits of debris off my clothes when a car pulled into the lot and parked in the spot reserved for the property manager. A man and a woman got out of the car, walked to the office door and opened it with a key and went inside.

  I looked myself over, wondered if I should go take a shower and then come back. My clothes were torn in places and marked with a variety of stains, and I probably smelled as bad as the trash heap now. Maybe worse, since a good amount of sweat had been added to the mix.

  I decided not to worry about it. If the McFaddens wanted visitors who didn’t stink, they should make themselves available during the hours posted on the door. I trotted over there and turned the knob and pushed the door open and walked on in.

  Mrs. McFadden was sitting at a desk talking on the phone. She held her index finger up when I walked in, indicating that she would be with me momentarily. I stood there and waited. I didn’t see Mr. McFadden. There was a closed door behind the desk. I figured it led to another area of the office. Mr. McFadden was probably back there tending to some important business. Like an afternoon nap, maybe.

  Mrs. McFadden finished with her phone call. She stood and smiled and walked my way and held her hand out, but then her smile turned to a frown and her hand dropped to her side. I guess she got a whiff of me. I guess I didn’t smell like the kind of man you wanted to get too friendly with.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  I told her my name and explained why I was there.

  “I’ve been waiting around for a while,” I said. “I tried the phone number, didn’t get an answer.”

  “Actually, my husband and I just got back from the police station. We wanted to show them some video footage.”

  “Video footage?”

  “Yes. There was a shooting here in the parking lot last week, so we decided to have some security cameras installed. We hadn’t seen Kei Thrasher around for a few days, and we were wondering about him, so we went through some of the footage and saw him climbing into a car and leaving the complex with a woman. We talked to a detective named Hollinger just now, but he didn’t seem very interested. Said he didn’t see any evidence that a crime had been committed.”