The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4)

by T Patrick Phelps

  The inside of Route 69 Bar and Grill continued the expected theme of decorations. Unpainted, rough-cut timber boards running horizontally served as the bar’s walls while even rougher-cut six-by-six-inch pine posts braced the ceiling. The bar stretched straight across the recently swept floor, spanning fifty feet and buttressing up against a wall on the left hand side, and a narrow hallway leading deeper into the establishment to the bar’s right. As he made his way to the bar, each step sending screams of board squeaks as his weight fell and then was lifted off the wooden floor, Derek saw several dining tables spread in what could have been interpreted as some semblance of order. A man wearing a “Buffalo Bills” t-shirt stood behind the bar, smiling at Derek with both arms braced on the bar’s surface.

  “Hello young man,” the assumed bar tender said to Derek. “Thanks for stopping in. Looking for lunch or just a bite of some beer?”

  “Not sure, yet,” Derek replied. “I was hoping to speak with whoever runs this place or is here so often that a stranger like myself might mistake them for being the owner.”

  The man in the Buffalo Bills t-shirt laughed and said, “The name is Lance Mahoney, and I am both the owner and someone a stranger might assume to the be owner. How can I help you?”

  Derek shook Lance’s proffered hand, then sat at one of the high bar stools. He checked the time on his phone, scanned the line of bottles behind the bar, glanced at his phone again, then ordered a Dewar’s White Label scotch, two ice cubes and a whisper of water.

  “Fine choice,” Lance said. “How about a menu?”

  “My appetite waxes and wanes depending on how welcome I feel when I enter a new place.”

  “Not sure which is better for me, waxing or waning, but I sure hope you’re comfortable.” Lance shot a quick glance around the mostly empty bar. He then squinted his eyes and drew a slightly more noticeable smile across his face. “Most people don’t announce themselves as being a stranger, but you were pretty quick to do so. Since you are a stranger, at least to me, and you have a look of determination marking your face, I’m betting you’re here to ask me some questions about someone or something specific. And,” Lance continued as he placed Derek’s drink in front of him atop a chicken wing sauce ceramic coaster, “I bet you’re unsure about my reaction to the questions you want to ask and are probably thinking that eating one of my award winning burgers with a guy pissed off at you will wax or wane your enjoyment. How am I doing?”

  “Spot on,” Derek replied.

  “Well, how about I hand you a menu and you ask your first question. If I don’t like your question or think your question is taking our first ever conversation down a path I’m not comfortable taking, I’ll politely take the menu from your hands, you finish your drink, drop a five on the bar and we part as strangers?”

  Derek took the menu Lance was holding out. “My name is Derek Cole. Freelance Detective. My agency was hired by Louis Randall to investigate the fire that took the lives of Brian Mack and his mother and to find out any information that may exonerate his son, Bo.”

  Lance buttressed his thin frame with his arms on the bar, smiled broadly and said, “Like I said, my burgers are award winners. If you ask me to see the actual awards, I’ll suggest the chicken wings. But, take me at my word: The cheddar and bacon double is the best within a hundred mile radius.”

  “Any chance you have sweet potato fries to go along with that double?”

  “And a free well drink, which I’m guessing will make me reach for that bottle of Dewar’s again.”

  After Lance returned from the kitchen—calling out Derek’s order to an unseen cook—he pulled up a stool and sat next to Derek. The two talked for several minutes, occasionally interrupted when other patrons found their glasses too empty for their comfort. By the time the cook brought Derek’s lunch out and placed it alongside a setting of cheap silverware wrapped in a paper napkin at the bar, Derek’s waxing appetite was demanding some attention.

  “Don’t let me stop you from eating,” Lance said. “You get to eating. I’m going try to get some of these bums to either pay up or order something from the kitchen.”

  He wasn’t sure if the cheddar and bacon double had actually ever won an award, but it certainly should have. Coupled with his second heavily-poured glass of scotch, Derek was certain the lunch was one of the best he had had in years.

  “So, what d’ya think?” Lance said as he sat back next to Derek. A few people had entered Route 69 Bar and Grill while Derek was eating, and, not wanting to be disturbed, Lance called two of his employees out from the back kitchen: One to man the bar and another to serve the new, and hopefully, hungry customers. “Award winner or not?”

  “Damn good,” Derek said, swallowing the last few sweet potato fries. “Not sure if it will mean anything to you, but I officially award this lunch with the ‘Private Eye’s Best Rated Burger East of the Mississippi Award.’ Congratulations.”

  “Hell’s bells,” Lance chuckled. “You write out those words on a piece of fancy parchment paper and I’ll frame it and hang in behind the bar.” He pulled closer to Derek. “Listen,” he said in a low, serious-toned voice, “folks around here don’t like when strangers talk about locals. Let’s you and me sit down at one of those unfortunately empty tables in the dining area where we can talk about Bo, the fire, and whatever else it was that inspired you to come in here.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Last month, in May, I turned fifty-three. I’ve lived all but ten of those years within twenty miles of Ravenswood. You ask me anything you want about the town, the people in it, or the good, bad and downright ugly, and chances are, I’ll have a thing or two to tell you. I’ve seen plenty of things happen in this town, some good, some not so good, but I’m here to tell you, the fire that killed my friend Brian Mack was one of the worst things I’ve seen. And not just the fire, but also the way the sheriff’s and state police dragged Bo right out of my restaurant as he was sitting with a whole slew of members of the fire department, charged him with arson and whatever else they slapped on him. I’ve known Bo for plenty of years and while I would admit in a court of law that he has a serious drinking problem, he ain’t no arsonist and he sure as hell ain’t a killer.”

  “He claims to have no recollection of what he did the night of the fire,” Derek said. “He claims he was here drinking till after midnight but some of your patrons told the police he left a few hours earlier.”

  “I was one of the ones who told the police that,” Lance replied. “I was here that night, like I am most every night. Serving a few beers, chatting with some regulars and making sure that none of those heavier-drinkers started any trouble. Bo was here with a few of his friends from the department. I will say that Bo was especially thirsty that night. He was going at the beer pretty hard for a while. But Bo is pretty damn experienced at hiding his drinking problem. Someone who didn’t know him and had met him for the first time that night, wouldn’t be able to tell if Bo had drunk one or twenty beers.

  “I’ve come to believe that alcoholism is one of the worst things that can happen to a man. Now, don’t get me wrong; I don’t believe alcoholism is a disease. I feel that alcoholics are responsible for their condition. One hundred percent responsible. Not like cancer,” Lance’s eyes seemed to drift off to a distant memory. “That’s a disease. But what makes alcoholism such a kick in the dick is how alcoholics can learn to hide it. A fat man can only attempt to hide the severity of his fatness, but people can take one look at him and know he’s fat. An alcoholic however, can be standing right next to you and you’ll never know. Being able to hide it makes alcoholics feel like they can control their alcohol abuse. But that belief only makes things worse.

  “Bo was here drinking heavy, but he wasn’t here all night. I can’t tell you where he went after he left here, though. If I knew, I would’ve told the police. I would’ve told them regardless if what I told them put Bo away for life or cleared his name.” Lance waved at the bartender. When he captured the ba
rkeep’s attention, he flashed two fingers then made a circling gesture.

  “I think two should be my limit today,” Derek said. “I need to get up to the hospital.”

  Lance dug into the front pocket of his jeans, pulled out an unwrapped piece of nicotine gum. He popped the gum into his mouth and began chewing hungrily. “Hospital? You sick or someone you know sick?” he asked.

  Derek paused a beat before answering. “My associate was attacked this morning.”

  “Jeez. That didn’t happen around here, did it?”

  “Matter of fact,” Derek continued, “it happened in her son’s house. Bo Randall’s house.”

  “You’re telling me that Bo Randall’s mother is your associate?” Lance had the look of someone processing an overwhelming amount of information. His face fell slack near his mouth and drew tight around his eyes.

  “That’s how I got involved in this case. Bo’s mother, who prefers to go by her maiden name of Crown, was staying with Bo since we got in last night.”

  “What the hell happened?” Lance said, chewing his nicotine gum more slowly now.

  Derek told Lance everything he knew about Crown’s attack, including the conversation he’d had with Investigator Mark Mullins.

  “You met with old Frosty?” Lance said, then leaned back in his chair and began smiling and shaking his head.

  “Frosty?” Derek questioned.

  “I’ve known Mullins since I was a junior in high school and he was a freshman. He was a good kid, great baseball player and was never someone you’d figure would become a cop. Poor Mark, his hair was salt and pepper when he got into high school and as white as snow by the time he graduated.”

  “He got the nickname because of the color of his hair, I assume?”

  “Actually, no. Mark was a good kid, like I said, but he was also the type of kid you didn’t want to get mad. He’s always been stronger and bigger than most. A few times, back in high school, some kids thought it would be fun to give Mullins a good old ball breaking about his hair. Let’s just say that session didn’t end well for them. Nope, he earned the nickname ‘Frosty’ a bunch of years after his hair turned as white as snow. He’s called ‘Frosty’ because of the way he can stare down anyone. Hell, I heard he got suspects to confess just by staring at them. Not sure if it’s true but I’ve been stared down by Mullins, and let me tell you, it feels awfully cold in that gaze.”

  Derek and Lance spoke a while longer about Crown, Mullins’ suspicions that Bo may have been behind the attack and the recent string of unusual events in Ravenswood. The one common thread that tied all the recent crimes or strange behavior together was that none of the accused could remember anything about their activities during the time the crimes they were accused of were perpetrated. Beyond the car vandals, none of the accused were friends, relatives, worked together or even had friends in common. In most small towns bereft by a crime spree, those accused were almost always connected in more than one way. It wasn’t a hard and fast rule that police and private investigators lived by, but finding a connection was the first course of investigative business.

  But Ravenswood was different.

  “You got yourself a Gordian knot of a case, don’t you?” Lance said.

  “I can’t say for sure since I have no idea what the hell a Gordian knot is.”

  Lance tipped his tumbler of brown liquid towards Derek’s glass that was sitting, still untouched, on the table in front of him. “It means a complex and intricate problem. What you’re dealing with is a like a bad-ass knot. You don’t know where to start releasing the knot because if you pull at the wrong place, you’re likely to make the knot worse.”

  “Kind of like us starting this investigation in the first place made things worse and got Crown attacked.”

  “And I am sorry about what happened to her. I bet she’s important to you.”

  “She is,” Derek said.

  Lance took a healthy sip, then placed his tumbler on the table. “I can’t tell you the whole story of the Gordian knot, but I do know that the knot was tied by someone—probably named Gordian—and was supposed to be a knot so intricate that no one but the future and heretofore unknown future ruler of Asia could untie it.”

  “Was the knot ever solved?”

  “Sure was, but not the way you probably think it was solved,” Lance said as he grabbed his tumbler, took another small sip and smiled at Derek.

  “So, are you going to tell me how the knot was solved or is this story another Gordian knot?”

  Ignoring Derek’s request for a quick explanation, Lance said, “Most people, when working at freeing a knot, do exactly what you’re doing on this case: Pulling here and there, seeing if something they do loosens things up at all. But the Gordian knot was solved by Alexander the Great. You do know who Alexander the Great was, don’t you?”

  “I remember reading about him in high school. King of Macedonia, ended up conquering most of the Middle East, including Egypt and died at thirty-two from malaria.”

  “I’m impressed,” Lance remarked. “Alexander was not a patient man so when he was presented with the knot, he didn’t waste time trying to pull at it, loosen up this or that bit of rope. Nope, he took out his sword, and cut the bitch of a knot in half. I’m not a private investigator, but if I was and I was working this case, I’d pull out my sword and cut right into the heart of the problem.”

  Derek smiled and nodded his head. “You know, I’m not a fan of people named Alexander, but, what you said sounds like good advice. Now, if you’d be so kind as to point out where the hell I can find the heart of the problem, I’ll find a sword and take my best swing.”

  ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

  “I can’t tell you where to swing that sword of yours, but I can tell you a theory I have.” Lance had finished his drink and waved to the bartender for a replacement. A young, red-haired waitress showed up table-side a few minutes later, holding two drinks. “I know you haven’t much touched your second drink yet,” Lance said to Derek, “but I have a feeling you and I are going to be sitting here for a bit.”

  Derek smiled at the waitress, who in turn inched a bit closer to him and responded with her own smile. She bent deeply from the waist, ensuring that her breasts brushed across Derek’s shoulder, and placed the two drinks in the middle of the table.

  “Hungry?” the red haired, boob-bumping waitress asked.

  “Not quite yet,” Derek said, then shot his attention back to Lance. Though his wife had been dead for over four years, Derek still felt married to Lucy. His good looks, well-conditioned body and the self-confidence that seemed to exude from him, afforded him numerous opportunities with women. But to him, and only to him, he was still married to Lucy.

  Lance sent the waitress away with a wave of his hand. “You know what they say about getting good help?”

  “Hard to find?” Derek said.

  “It all fits into my two percent theory. Bo Randall fits into my theory as well. And, I suppose, you do too.”

  Derek glanced at his phone, making sure he hadn’t missed a call or message from Nikkie. “Cell phone reception okay in this place?” he asked Lance.

  “Unfortunately, no matter which cell phone company you fork over more money to than most families in third world countries earn in a month, your signal should be rock solid. Hate those damn life-stealers. Cannot believe how many times I’ve seen young people nearly get killed by walking into traffic because they were paying more attention to what their phones were doing than the cars on the road.”

  “It’s only going to get worse,” Derek said. “Before long, some genius out in Silicon Valley will get a brain implant chip approved, and we’ll be connected twenty-four seven.”

  “Not me,” Lance said, waving his hands defiantly. “I only have a flip phone because my wife’s condition demanded that I kept myself on call.” Lance drifted off, again making Derek think Lance was making a quick visit to the past.

  “Wife not well?” Derek asked.

&n
bsp; Lance smiled, pulled his drink close to his mouth, and said, “Met her when I was eighteen and had just signed up for a four year hitch with the Army. Karen Elizabeth Beaton was her maiden name. As the saying goes, I definitely out kicked my coverage with her. For some reason, she fell for me almost as hard as I fell for her. I went away to boot camp and she sent me letters three times a week for those eight miserable weeks. When I graduated boot camp, I got assigned to Fort Drum up north from here in Watertown. I didn’t think she’d accept, but when I asked her to marry me and to move out of Ravenswood and up to Watertown, she did.

  “About seven years ago, she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. We didn’t catch it in time. Hell on earth, I tell you, it’s hell on earth watching the woman you love take such a hard and long tumble towards her own death. I still carry this phone around and I still half expect her hospice nurse to call to tell me I’d better head back home. Karen’s been dead seven years and I still forget she’s gone.

  “So, when your Silicon Valley genius gets his implants approved by the government, you won’t see me standing in line to get my brain fucked with. Not me. I’ll stick with my old Motorola flip and I’ll keep forgetting that my wife’s dead and that I don’t need the damn thing any longer.” Lance brought his glass the final few inches to his lips, and took a long, deep draw from it.

  Derek sat silently for several seconds, not knowing what to say.

  “I was about to tell you my theory,” Lance said, breaking the silence. “That night, the night Mack’s house burned down, Bo was here with a few guys from the department. After a bit, some other guy I hadn’t seen before strolled in. I usually keep behind the bar and take notice of who’s coming and who’s going. This guy didn’t look like trouble, but he had the look of someone who knows a lot about trouble. White guy, late thirties, tall and muscled out. Wore some God-awful black t-shirt with some fucked up design that looked like a battering ram being wielded by a troll across the chest. Jeans and loafers.