Robinson looked suddenly suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“One of the busiest weeks of summer and you hardly had any guests at all,” Bob said and Robinson detected more than a little sarcasm in his voice.
“Times ain’t easy, Mr. Brown.” Robinson smiled wryly.
“And I doubt if they’ll be getting any easier.” Bob winked and then turned around to leave.
The most obvious reason why Jim and Daryl’s names hadn’t been in the book was because Spider, in all his depth of character, hadn’t been telling the truth.
But Bob wondered if perhaps the motel hadn’t been quite as empty as the books suggested. If that were the case, Bob knew he would find out eventually. And then he would be more than happy to share whatever missing information there might have been with the Internal Revenue Service. Bob knew what the IRS would do with someone if he was cheating the books, and it wasn’t pleasant. In fact, if Robinson wasn’t doing honest business, times would indeed be getting tougher.
For now, though, until he knew differently, Bob had to believe that Robinson was telling the truth and Spider was lying. And if Spider was lying about which motel the boys had stayed at, he was probably lying about everything else, too.
THAT SAME AFTERNOON, IN METAMORA, MICHIGAN, ROY Boucher had finally decided to make the dreaded trip to the bank. He had put it off for days but the time had come to withdraw Jim’s money. They had run out of alternatives.
As Roy drove to the bank, he gazed at the rows of maple trees that lined the streets. It was late fall and the leaves had turned brilliant colors: oranges, reds, and yellows. Winter would be here soon and with it the holidays. Usually, the excitement Roy felt for the Christmas season had started by now. But this year was different. Everything was different. Jim was gone and in all likelihood he wasn’t coming home. For the hundredth time Roy wondered why they were throwing their money away trying to find the boys. Especially Jim’s money. Obviously something had happened to them. If they were still alive, they would have called.
But each time Roy asked himself the question, he instinctively knew the answer. No matter how slim, there was a chance that the boys had been abducted or that they were trapped somewhere. In that case, obviously any amount of money they might spend to find them would be worth the expense.
James Byrd, the Michigan investigator, needed the next installment by Monday morning and Roy had waited until the last possible moment before making this trip. Earlier in the day he had contacted the Chevrolet dealer from which Jim had ordered his brand new Camaro. The salesman had questioned his reason for canceling the order, offering a better price and a finance plan to change Roy’s mind. But Roy had declined and even been short with the man.
“I just want to cancel it, all right?” he had said angrily.
The salesman paused a moment. “Is there a problem with the product, sir?”
“No! It’s a personal thing. We just won’t be needing the car.”
Now, Roy wondered if that was true. What if Jim came home? Wouldn’t he be angry that his money was gone and that his car no longer was on order?
Roy shook his head, disgusted with himself for thinking that Jim would be angry. The boys had been missing for three months and he and the other parents had run out of ways to fund the investigation. This was their only remaining option.
He pulled into the bank parking lot and turned off the engine. For a long moment, he sat in the car and leaned his head on the steering wheel. Jim had been so proud of himself for winning that bowling contest. The prize money had been unheard of. Ten thousand dollars. There were professional bowlers who didn’t make that much money after bowling an entire year of tournaments.
They had celebrated at home the night he found out about winning the grand prize. Faye had taken a picture of Jim in front of the trophy and then they had all shared cake and ice cream. Roy rested a moment longer, savoring the memory and willing himself to be back in that moment once again: when everyone was safe and home and Jim was sitting on top of the world.
Roy sighed. He knew he had to get out of the car, go inside the bank, and make the withdrawal. Jim had wanted his father’s name on the account since he was a minor when he opened it. Now Roy knew the bank would not have a problem with him taking the money, if only he could summon the strength to leave the car. All he wanted to do was stay there and keep remembering, pretending he didn’t have to use Jim’s money to pay a private investigator. There was something so final about reaching this point.
He took a deep breath, and summoning every bit of his remaining resolve, Roy climbed out of the car and headed for the bank. It was the darkest day he could remember ever having.
WHEN BOB GOT BACK TO THE OFFICE AT FIVE O’CLOCK there was a message for him to call Mike or Rob. His two assistants had agreed to go back up and down Interstate 10 with a new description—this one of Snake Cox. Naturally no one had seen two nice-looking boys from Michigan driving the red Nova. But perhaps someone had seen Snake. It was worth a try.
Bob picked up the phone and dialed Mike’s number.
“It’s Bob, what’ve you got?”
“Got a lead, Bob.”
Bob grabbed a pen and paper. “Shoot.”
“Okay. Rob and I found a tow truck driver near Biloxi who remembers working on the battery cable of a red Chevy Nova, Michigan plates, sometime between August eighteenth and August twentieth.”
“You tell him about Snake?”
“Sure did. According to the tow truck driver, Snake was the one driving the car.”
“Bingo.” Bob was thrilled with this information. “What else?”
“Nothing really. Just that after he fixed the car, the guy headed south.”
“Great,” Bob grinned. “Hey, thanks, Mike. Keep it up. We’re going to find those boys yet. I’m getting that feeling.”
Mike laughed. When Bob had a feeling about a case, it was usually solved in a matter of days.
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Right.”
Bob hung up the phone and pondered this new information. Spider had said that the boys went with Snake to Mississippi. Same story the trailer park couple gave. But not once had Bob believed that to be the truth. Why would the boys drive north to Mississippi with a shady guy like Snake when they were supposed to be headed for Disneyworld?
Now he knew that even if the boys had driven north to Mississippi with Snake, they apparently hadn’t returned with him. Bob loved a good lead, and this one more than qualified. It meant that if the boys had come to harm, the web of evidence surrounding Snake—and probably Spider—was finally starting to take shape.
CHAPTER 24
By Saturday morning, Brown had finally gotten a photograph of Snake. He had thick, greasy, shoulder-length brown hair which he wore brushed back off his head. His face was thin and pockmarked and his dark bushy mustache curved down around the edges of his thin lips. But it was his eyes that one first noticed. They were brown and beady and flat, like pictures Bob had seen of killer sharks.
Mikelson had asked that the FDLE send a copy of their file photo on Cox and they had done so by mail. It had arrived late Friday afternoon. Bob looked closely at the photograph. Definitely not like any of the pictures he’d used in previous investigations. This was not an average cheating spouse or a parent who had denied a former spouse custodial rights to their child. In Bob’s opinion of such people he thought Snake looked downright evil. The idea of him carrying not one, but two loaded guns was purely terrifying.
Bob sat at his Orlando desk staring at the picture.
He had reached a crossroads.
For the first time in his career as an investigator he was looking at the face of a person he wasn’t sure he could find. Not only that, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to find him. John Snake Cox was a hardened, dangerous, heavily armed criminal who was wanted by a number of law enforcement agencies. And what experience did he, Bob Brown, a private investigat
or of domestic cases, have with such people? Bob knew the answer.
He had none.
For nearly an hour Bob sat at his desk considering his options. He was not going to give up. He would find Snake somehow and he would find the missing teenagers. By now their parents must be beyond worry. They had probably realized that their sons were dead but because they could not be positive, they had been denied the chance even to grieve. They deserved answers and Bob wasn’t going to stop the investigation until he had some.
One option, Bob knew, was for him to continue walking the Daytona Beach bars, flashing hundred dollar bills until someone said something about Snake’s whereabouts. Of course, he might just as easily get himself killed by doing that. The bikers did not like him. He was not one of their kind and even the rival gang members hadn’t approved of his presence. If he couldn’t gain the confidence of the bikers, he didn’t stand a chance of finding Snake.
He could push Detective Mikelson, beg him to start asking questions about Snake. But if bikers weren’t willing to be paid for information, they certainly weren’t going to give it away free to the police.
Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. He would have to hire a new employee, a special kind of temporary operative who could infiltrate the biker bars and somehow learn the whereabouts of Snake. This person would have to appear to be a biker but he must be neither a Pagan nor an Outlaw. Someone with no affiliation to either group would have the best chance of getting information. Whatever he looked like, he would have to be menacing with the kind of intimidating size that would increase his chances of getting a favorable response. Now, it was a matter of finding such an employee.
As with other stages of the investigation, Bob knew of only one way to locate the person he was looking to hire. He bowed his head on his desk and prayed. For thirty minutes he spoke with God, asking him to further assist him in the investigation and to continue sending him leads he could work with. Especially, he asked for guidance in finding that certain employee who could lead him to Snake. When he was finished, he humbly thanked God for all he’d done so far and again asked for protection.
Then he hit the Orlando bars.
The best way of finding a biker who belonged to neither the Pagans nor the Outlaws, he figured, was by looking in the Orlando area. But by eight o’clock that evening, he was beginning to give up hope. He had checked seventeen bars, most of them with a heavy biker clientele. Still, he hadn’t found anyone like the man he wanted to hire.
He went back to his car and decided to try one more bar. After that, he was going to go home. He could try again Monday. Before he got out of his car he said another brief prayer.
As he climbed out of his car, he looked toward the front door of the Hillside Saloon and suddenly he saw the silhouette of a man who could easily have been mistaken for a grizzly bear. Bob stood motionless, quietly watching the man.
He appeared to be a patron, and he seemed to be having a conversation with the bouncer. Bob was taken aback by the immensity of the man. He looked like a mountain with wild, fiery red hair and a full beard. His arms bulged against his black leather jacket and he held his head and eyes in a way that would strike fear in all but the most foolish people. Bob smiled. God willing, he had found his employee.
He walked up to the man and introduced himself. “Bob Brown, private investigator. You got a minute?”
The man looked Bob up and down and grinned as if he found something humorous about Bob’s question. He shrugged, looking at the bouncer and then back toward Bob. “All right.”
Bob motioned toward the front of the bar, outside and away from other people. “Listen, I need to know if you belong to a biker gang?”
The man laughed out loud. “I am a biker gang, man.”
Bob nodded as if that was the answer he had expected all along. “Well, I’ve got a job for you if you’re interested.”
The man sneered. “What makes you think I’d be interested?”
Bob pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket and the man raised an eyebrow. “You interested?”
“Talk.”
“I need to know where I can find a biker named Snake,” Bob began. He pulled out the black and white photograph of John Cox. “This is him. He hangs out at the Boot Hill Saloon in Daytona Beach.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“One hundred now. One hundred when you get the information. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Larry.” The man took the picture from Bob and stared at it a moment. “Two hundred bucks, huh?”
“Two hundred.” Bob looked him in the eyes. “Deal?”
“Deal.”
THERE WAS A STILLNESS IN THE AIR, A HUMIDITY THAT was unusual for mid-November. Bob sat in his sedan looking for the man he had hired the night before. They had agreed to meet at eleven o’clock that morning and it was already a quarter past. Only one other time had Bob ever been taken by a potential informant. And even now he didn’t believe Larry had stood him up. The man would appear at any time. He had to.
Two more minutes passed and suddenly there was a hard knock on Bob’s back window. Immediately, Bob pulled his gun and turned around. It was Larry, grinning and motioning him to roll down his window.
“Don’t do that, Larry.” Bob released a long sigh and slowly replaced the revolver under his suit jacket. “Let’s make a plan.”
“I’m going into the saloon. Time to start asking questions,” Larry said. He was definitely not afraid of this assignment. “What are you gonna’ do?”
“I’ll cover you.” Bob pointed to the old cemetery down the street across from the saloon. “I’ll walk in there like I’m visiting my old grandma and once I’m in I’ll hide behind a tombstone. The gun’s loaded, so don’t worry.”
“Do I look worried, Bob?” Larry grinned. He had every intention of enjoying the job ahead of him.
“Either way, I’ll be there. You got the picture of Snake?”
“Won’t need it.”
“You might need it, Larry.”
The hulking man pointed knowingly to his right temple. “It’s up here, Bob. All safe and secure. I’ll find the guy for you, don’t you worry.”
He started to cross the street. “Be careful!” Bob whispered. Larry waved him off and continued toward the saloon.
Walking boldly through the front door, Larry strode to the center of the bar and looked around. “Listen up!” he shouted.
Every eye in the place was instantly on him.
A ripple of tension coursed through the bar and several bikers rose to their feet in anticipation of trouble. Larry waited until he had their undivided attention.
“Anybody know where Snake is?” Each syllable boomed through the saloon and bounced off the walls. Larry looked around waiting for a response but there was none. Moving slowly in a small circle and snorting like a caged Brahma, Larry glared at the bikers who surrounded him. He walked to the bar and stood perfectly still. Then, in a sudden whir of raging anger, he brought his fist down. A spiderweb of tiny cracks appeared in the bar.
“I said,” he bellowed, “does anybody here know where Snake is?”
Although no one attempted to physically kick him out of the bar, not a person responded to his question. Larry waited what he considered a fair amount of time and when no one answered he began once more walking slowly, this time over to a pool table where a handful of bikers had interrupted their game to see what the red-haired giant wanted.
With a swipe of his paw, he erased their game, sending balls spewing across the table and onto the floor. He lowered his face menacingly.
“Does anybody here”—at this point he paused, glaring at the faces around him, detonating each word like a hand grenade—“does anybody here know where Snake is?”
This time when no one said anything, Larry turned around and marched out the front door. Out on the sidewalk he looked at the line of shiny, well-cared-for Harley-Davidson bikes parked neatly one alongside th
e other. They covered the entire length of the saloon and their chrome fenders shone in the sun.
Across the street, Bob had positioned himself behind a gray, ceramic tombstone. His gun was drawn and he watched nervously as Larry came out from the bar and stood in front of the row of bikes. He watched as suddenly Larry lifted his booted foot and kicked the first bike over. One by one the polished choppers fell on top of each other, collapsing and crashing to the ground like a row of two-wheeled dominoes.
“Goodness,” Bob whispered.
Instantly, dozens of angry bikers poured from the bar and appeared ready to charge Larry. Bob aimed his gun and waited.
Larry saw the mob and, grinning madly, he pulled out a cigarette lighter from his pocket and ignited it. Then he bent down and held the flame inches from the gas tank of the first bike.
“They’re all going up in one big bang unless someone tells me where Snake is,” Larry announced calmly.
Across the street Bob had no idea what Larry was saying. But suddenly the bikers stood perfectly still as if they were afraid to move another inch.
Larry laughed again and the bikers watched him helplessly, terrified of what he might do. At that instant one of the men stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“Look, man, we don’t know where Snake is. Honest.” The biker was in his forties and had a thick gray beard. His eyes held fear and Larry smiled. What a sham, these gangster bikers, he thought.
“Speak!” Larry ordered.
“But Fat Man knows. You ask Fat Man, he can tell you.”
Another biker stepped forward. “Yeah,” he said. “Fat Man knows the truth.”
“And where might I find Mr. Fat Man?” Larry asked, his demeanor suddenly calm and gentle as he straightened and put his lighter back in his pocket.
The bikers visibly relaxed while from behind the tombstone Bob remained frozen in place, his revolver cocked and ready to fire.
The man who had spoken first pointed down the street. “He hangs out at the bar down there,” he said. “About six feet tall, real thin, narrow face and long blond hair. That’s Fat Man. Likes one of the dancers down there, you know what I mean, man?”
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