Don't Look for Me

by Mason Cross

  She glanced at it and shook her head wearily. “Anything smaller?”

  “I don’t want change.”

  Her face brightened and she smiled, not quite believing it. “For real?” Not waiting for an answer, she reached out and tried to pull the bill toward herself. Gage kept his finger on it, right in the middle of Ulysses S. Grant’s face. Her eyes moved from the fifty to him, the smile vanishing.

  “What can you tell me about Logan McKinney?”

  She shook her head. “How should I know?”

  “I don’t know,” Gage replied. “All I have is a feeling you can help me. Can you help me?”

  She bit her bottom lip and looked down at the fifty pinned to the bar by Gage’s finger again.

  “Come on, what’s the harm? You’re never going to see me again.”

  She looked back up at him, still unsure.

  “Anything you tell me is between you and me. I won’t mention it to McKinney.”

  She looked from side to side. Her boss had disappeared into the back. The only other two customers were on the other side of the bar, utterly absorbed in highlights of the previous night’s Diamondbacks game on one of the big screens.

  She reached under the bar and came out with a pen and a napkin branded with the name of the bar. She wrote a few words down on it. An address. She pushed the napkin across the bar to Gage. Simultaneously, he took his finger off the fifty-dollar bill.

  “That’s where he’s staying. Least, that’s where he was staying last week.”

  “Good enough,” Gage said.

  She took the fifty, folded it and put it in her pocket, and then took a few bills out of her pocket to put in the register for Gage’s Scotch.

  “He owe you money or something?”

  Gage sipped the Scotch and said nothing. It was decent. Far better quality than he would have expected in a place like this. He kept his eyes on the barmaid until she grew uncomfortable and moved down to the other side of the bar to see if the two Diamondback fans needed a refill.

  When he had finished the Scotch, he took his phone out and looked up the address. It was an apartment over in a part of the city called Arcadia. It was almost five miles across town, so he got the barmaid to call him a cab.

  It took Gage twenty minutes to get to McKinney’s address. The afternoon traffic was light, and Gage glanced at the neighborhoods he was passing through with interest. The city didn’t seem to have traditionally defined wealthy and poor areas. It was a patchwork quilt: dilapidated public housing next to expensive-looking condo developments. McKinney’s apartment building was on one of the rougher patches of the quilt.

  It was a concrete three-story U-shaped complex that had seen better days. There was a Circle K next door with some dealers hanging around outside, and garbage was strewn in the street. There was a cheap-looking coffee shop across the street with a sheet of plywood over one of the windows. He examined the building. McKinney’s apartment was number 35, which he thought would put it on the front-facing side of the third floor.

  There were no security gates or buzzers or anything that might have delayed him in a more salubrious area, so he walked straight in and climbed the two flights of stairs. He found 35. The door had been badly painted using the wrong kind of paint. There was a peephole beneath the numbers. Gage knocked twice and then put his eye to the peephole. He could see only darkness and a pinpoint of light, no detail. That was enough. He heard someone approach, very quietly. The pinpoint of light disappeared, and he thought he heard a stifled gasp.

  He stepped back, giving the occupant a clear view of him, if he was still looking, and knocked again.

  After a second, a quiet voice.

  “Who’s there?”

  “I’m looking for Logan McKinney.”

  A long pause. “Don’t know him. Wrong door.”

  “Are you sure? Dominic Freel asked me to come and see you.”

  The voice took on an edge. Superficial irritation, fear underneath. “I said you got the wrong door.”

  After a couple of seconds, he heard the footsteps retreating.

  Gage considered his options. He could be inside the apartment in seconds. But McKinney would be prepared now. He might have a gun. He was rattled—which was the intention, of course—but it meant that caution was advised.

  Gage walked back down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. He stopped and waited for a couple of minutes, watching the cars and the passers-by. He crossed over to the coffee shop across the street and took a seat in the window looking across to McKinney’s building. He ordered a black coffee and watched.

  Ten minutes later, the main door of the apartment complex opened and a tall, skinny guy wearing sweatpants and a faded purple hoodie stepped out. He paused at the door, surveying the street. Gage watched him out of the corner of his eye. McKinney paid him no attention if he saw him at all. Satisfied, he took off down the street, headed east. Gage watched him as he passed by the window of the coffee shop. It was definitely McKinney.

  Gage counted to five, abandoned his coffee and started following him. The sidewalks weren’t as busy as he would have liked: not enough other pedestrians to provide cover, so he kept his distance, keeping the distinctive purple hoodie in view at all times. McKinney was an exceptionally easy tail—not only the hoodie, but the lanky, up-and-down gait set him apart from everyone else.

  McKinney moved quickly down the sidewalk, looking side to side and occasionally glancing behind him. Gage wasn’t sure what McKinney thought he was looking for. Somebody conspicuously staring at him over a newspaper, perhaps.

  They reached an intersection with a busier street. Less housing, more businesses. Convenience stores and phone stores and delis. More people here. The opposite problem to not having enough cover: it was too busy for a confrontation. Gage wanted to wait until McKinney went somewhere quieter. McKinney walked two blocks before entering a bar. Gage continued past it without breaking stride. A casual glance was enough to tell him that this place made the bar McKinney had been working in look like a classy joint. He turned into a narrow alley on the far side of the bar and quickly surveyed it. Dumpsters lined one wall, some of them overflowing and shedding their detritus on the ground. There was a steel fire door in the wall leading into the bar. The alley doglegged after the door, before terminating in a ten-foot-high chain link fence topped with barbed wire. It was secluded, out of sight of the street, and the air conditioning grill in the wall of the next building was loud enough to cover a reasonable amount of noise. Good enough.

  Gage walked back around and entered the bar. It was dingy and dark inside; a jukebox playing “Take it Easy” by the Eagles. It was busy for a Wednesday afternoon. McKinney looked up from his phone as he entered, regarded him warily. Gage wondered if he recognized him from the street outside, from his many glances behind him. He didn’t particularly care. McKinney had strayed into a dead end. He just didn’t know it yet.

  He stood at the bar and ordered a beer that he knew he wasn’t going to drink. He watched McKinney play with his phone and look around nervously for a minute, and then he took the beer and walked straight across the room to where he was sitting. McKinney didn’t make eye contact until he was five feet away, and it was obvious Gage was heading for him.

  “Do I know you?” he asked.

  Gage smiled and sat down. “Not yet. I’m a friend of a friend. I heard you could tell me about Dominic Freel.”

  McKinney flinched in his chair.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Were you—” he stopped before he finished. Were you the guy who just buzzed my apartment?

  Gage sat back in his chair. It had the effect of emphasizing how big he was; how broad his shoulders were. “There doesn’t need to be any trouble here. Tell me where Freel is, and I disappear.”

  “I don’t know who you mean.”

  “Cut the bullshit, McKinney. Did you call him, after I buzzed you? If I look at your phone, it’ll have his number in it, won’t it?”

&n
bsp; McKinney said nothing. Gage was pleased. It meant he had the information.

  “Take It Easy” finished. “Tuesday’s Gone” started up. Gage lowered his voice. “I’m walking out of here with the information I want. Do you want to be able to walk out of here too?”

  McKinney’s mouth stayed closed, but his eyes were working overtime. He looked at Gage. McKinney might be a physical match for him, in his dreams. He looked at the bar staff; no help there. He looked at the door. Too far, and Gage was in the way.

  His throat worked as he swallowed and Gage noticed there was a slim beaded chain around his link, like the cord on a set of dog tags.

  “Give me a second? I don’t feel too good all of a sudden.”

  Gage stared at him for a few seconds before answering. “Okay.”

  He moved his chair to allow McKinney to get past him and head in the direction of the restrooms. The signage indicated that the fire exit was accessed via the same door. He waited until the door had swung shut and then got up and followed. He turned right where the corridor became a T-junction and saw McKinney pushing at the bar that opened the fire exit. He rushed him. McKinney turned, his arms outstretched in defense, and Gage slammed into him, mashing his back against the push bar and sending him flying out into the alley. Gage grabbed the front of his hoodie, bunched it up in his fist and slammed McKinney hard against the nearest dumpster, dislodging another avalanche of beer bottles and packaging and food waste.

  “I’m sorry!” McKinney yelled, covering his face.

  Gage said nothing. He shouldn’t be sorry. He had gone exactly where Gage had wanted him to. He yanked him back, spun him around and grabbed a handful of the back of his hoodie now, marching him toward the dogleg at the back of the alley. McKinney was already talking.

  “Quarter, he’s in Quarter.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Quarter,” he repeated, louder this time. “It’s a town.”

  “Keep going,” Gage said, not pausing in his forward motion. They reached the dogleg and Gage yanked him into the dead end, walked him forward toward the chain link fence and pushed him into it.

  McKinney looked up to see the barbed wire strung along the top of the fence, then spun around to face Gage.

  “I called him, like you said. You can have his number. I don’t have an address or—”

  Gage stood in the middle of the space, blocking McKinney’s exit. Without taking his eyes off him, Gage took his phone out and opened the internet browser by touch.

  “Where is it?”

  “Quarter, Arizona. It’s down by the border.”

  Gage held the phone up so he could look at the screen without taking his eyes off McKinney. He tapped the two words into the search: Quarter, Arizona. It existed. It was where McKinney had said it was.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That somebody had come by asking about him. I told him I didn’t let you in.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, man, I fuckin’ swear.”

  Gage looked past him through the chain link. The rest of the alley continued before cornering in the direction of the next street. Nobody around, no windows looking onto the alley. He put his phone back into his jacket pocket, then pulled out the Ruger from the opposite side.

  He pointed it between McKinney’s eyes.

  “Wait!” McKinney yelled.

  Gage didn’t say anything, didn’t move.

  “I had to send something to him last week. He didn’t give me his address, but he told me to mail it to him care of a diner down there.”

  “Name?”

  His brow creased. Gage thought the expression looked promising, like he was desperately trying to remember a name, rather than making one up.

  “You gotta give me a second.”

  “I’ll give you two.”

  “N-something! Norman’s? Norrie’s. Norrie’s Diner.”

  Keeping the gun trained on McKinney, he took his phone out again, Norrie’s, Quarter, Arizona. It checked out. Gage believed him, about all of it.

  “Thank you.” Gage lowered his gun. “Now, you wouldn’t think of doing something silly, like calling Freel to warn him, would you?”

  McKinney shook his head. His eyes were earnest. “No way, man.”

  Gage let the pause draw out. “That’s good. Okay, we’re done here.”

  McKinney gave a cautious smile and his fingers let go of the fence. He took a cautious step forward. He hesitated, and then moved past Gage, giving him a wide berth. Finally, he turned and started moving toward the dogleg that would take him into the wider part of the alley and then out on the street.

  Gage took two light steps forward and grabbed the back of McKinney’s hoodie with his left hand, yanking him backwards. McKinney started to yell, but the sound was cut off as Gage clamped his giant palm around the lower half of his face. Before McKinney could struggle, he braced his left hand on the shoulder and twisted McKinney’s head sharply back, feeling the satisfying crack as his neck snapped.

  23

  After a spell heading east, the road curved around and they were heading south again, passing through the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest when Sarah’s phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number on her caller ID. Blake, who had taken over the wheel when they stopped for gas in Winslow, looked over at her as it rang for the third time.

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She tapped to answer the call. As she raised the phone to her ear, an irrational fear gripped her. The illogical certainty that it would be the man from last night.

  It wasn’t. The voice was male, but belonged to someone older. Someone used to getting his way.

  “Am I speaking to Sarah Blackwell?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Detective Ray Costigane, Las Vegas Metropolitan PD.”

  She relaxed. A little. “If this is about last night, I’m not at home right now.”

  “I know that. I’m parked outside your house.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Sarah said, before thinking there was no reason why she should be.

  “This is partly about last night,” Costigane confirmed.

  “Partly?”

  “I spoke with Officers Derrick and Miller. They said you got a good look at the intruder.”

  “That’s right, even though it all happened so fast. He was big, and he had this ...”

  “Scar on his face, like a crescent,” he finished, as though reading from something in front of him. Probably Officer Derrick’s report. “I also spoke to Detective Stansfield from Missing Persons. Seems we’ve been visiting you a lot in the last couple of days.”

  “Okay,” Sarah said. The inquisitive tone in her voice made Blake look around again.

  He mouthed, “Who is it?”

  Sarah mouthed back “It’s a cop,” as Costigane began speaking again.

  “She mentioned you tried to report your neighbors missing. Rebecca and Dominic, is that right?”

  “Yes, I haven’t seen them in weeks. They just left with no warning.” A dark and unwelcome thought planted itself at the back of Sarah’s mind. “Is this about them? Has there been any news?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m investigating another case right now, and I think your neighbor may have some information I need.”

  “Rebecca?” The name already sounded artificial in her head. Sarah had had to make an effort not to say “Carol.”

  “No, I’m talking about her husband. I believe he was going by the name Smith, but we’re aware of him as Dominic Freel.”

  “That’s who the guy last night was looking for,” Sarah said. “He said his name was Freel. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t want to go into details, certainly not over the phone. He’s not in any trouble, but I think he saw something that could get him into it, if he’s not careful.”

  “Are you saying he’s a witness to a murder or something?”

  Costigane continued without acknowled
ging what she had said. “I need to know if he said anything to you before going away. Anything about where he might have been headed.”

  Her eyes were drawn to the notebook lying on the dashboard. “No idea whatsoever, Detective. And to be honest, I didn’t really know Dominic at all. I was friendly with ... with his wife, not him. Like I said: they were there one day, gone the next.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. “That’s interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just, you must have had some cause to worry, to call Missing Persons.”

  She thought about the yard party, the hushed whispering between the couple. The strong sense that something had been very wrong.

  “Somebody broke into their house a few nights ago. Your colleagues thought it was probably somebody the landlord knows.”

  Costigane left a long pause. An old trick Sarah had used many times herself. “I would like to come to speak to you when you get back home,” Costigane said at last. “Do you have an ETA?”

  “I’m out of town for a few days. I didn’t feel like staying in the house.” She injected a sharpness into her tone, and Costigane’s change of tone told her it had done its job.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I appreciate last night was not a pleasant situation, and I’d be grateful for any help in locating your friend Mr. Freel. I think there’s a chance what happened last night could be related.”

  Sarah thought there was a chance too. A better than even chance.

  “Listen, I don’t want to alarm you in any way, but I think we know who the man with the scar is. The description fits a guy named Trenton Gage. On our radar for a couple of murders in Vegas and California. He’s a bounty hunter and a killer, and he’s bad news. Links to some extremely shady people. If he’s looking for Freel, you don’t want to get in his way.” Costigane paused. “Do you understand me, Sarah?”

  “Of course,” Sarah said. Was this a coded warning? Was he telling her not to go looking for Carol, to leave it to the experts?

  “Anyway, when you get back to Vegas, I would appreciate it if you could give me a call on this number and arrange a time to come into the station. In the meantime ...”