Arnold tightened up the security at Rootie Tootie’s, and all employees were shown pictures of Luke Olsen as he presently looked. Arnold had his people take it one step further and used facial-recognition software to show what the architect could look like if he tried to change his appearance. He hired two extra bouncers to drive home his point about how serious the situation was. Because his staff loved and adored the little man, there was no doubt his orders would be carried out to the letter.
John continued with his job at the café and had no clue he had a bodyguard tailing him every minute of the day. That’s how good Arnold’s people were.
Nashville had recovered from the freak ice storm, and the Christmas season had gone into full swing. Beth said over and over that she’d never seen a happier place, and she just loved, loved, loved Nashville. John agreed.
Late at night, curled up against each other, the two of them talked about their wedding, which they were planning for April. A spring wedding in Nashville was exactly what Beth wanted. She’d yet to speak to her brother, but she knew in her heart, her mind, her gut, that Jake would be walking her down the aisle even if he limped or used a cane.
With no outward sign that Luke Olsen was anywhere near, both John and Beth fell into an it-was-all-a-bad-dream-and-now-it’s-over attitude. That bothered Jim Mack because he knew this downtime, this quiet time, was just the lull before the storm.
As the days wore on, John’s popularity increased, and most nights it was standing room only at Rootie Tootie’s. Every night Beth sat ringside with Arnold Stonebridge, cheering John on. But the best part, as Beth had said to John, was they had both made a wonderful new friend in Arnold. Then she had whispered something in John’s ear that made him grin from ear to ear. “Can you really do that?”
“I put Gracie on it, and it’s in the works. It’s a long shot, but like I said, she’s working on it, and so are the other girls. I told them all it’s a top priority. I’m kind of hoping something will break around Christmas. Now wouldn’t that make the most smashing present of all time?” John kept grinning and complimented his soon-to-be bride by saying if anyone could do it, it was she and Gracie.
While Beth and John continued living their lives, Luke Olsen was scouring the dregs of Nashville, with no success, hoping to find someone crazy enough to, as he put it, take out John Rossmon. He felt like he was at the end of his rope. He was sick and tired of living on the fly, sleeping in his stolen brown van, washing up in gas station washrooms to conserve his money, which was dwindling at the speed of light. He’d already dipped into what he referred to as his wedding money, something he swore he wouldn’t do.
Olsen was running out of time and resources, and he knew it. And to make matters worse, he was no closer to Beth than he had been back in Garden Grove. How stupid that was. They were gone almost a week before he even had a clue they were no longer in the house. He was losing his edge, and he knew it. He needed some kind of plan but couldn’t think of anything that would bring him closer to Beth. Why was she doing this? How much longer was she going to punish him? What had he done that was so awful she refused to forgive him? If she would just tell him whatever it was, he would fix it in a heartbeat.
Olsen’s eyes narrowed as his fist pummeled the armrest separating the driver’s seat from the passenger seat. She said she was marrying that . . . that . . . guitar player. He knew they were just words to hurt him because she was angry. And now this text from his parents telling him the police had gone to their office asking for him and saying all kinds of hateful things about him. They wanted him to come home to straighten things out. Like that was going to happen. Not. He’d fix them; he wouldn’t invite them to his wedding. Where was their loyalty? He pushed that thought as far back in his mind as he could.
Olsen peered out the side window of the van. He blinked several times when he noticed how all the shops and street lamps were decorated for Christmas. Christmas! He shook his head to try to clear away his thoughts. Christmas! He’d just sent a cornucopia to Beth for Thanksgiving. It couldn’t be Christmas already. He blinked again. Just the thought of Beth’s spending Christmas with that . . . that . . . guitar player sent him into a blind rage. Maybe that’s why Beth was so upset with him. He hadn’t told her what he was going to get her for Christmas. Women were like that. Just last month, he’d spent over an hour in Victoria’s Secret staring at all the sexy lacy lingerie. He’d settled on a black-and-red see-through teddy and was about to buy it when the manager had come up to him and asked him to leave because several women complained about how he’d walked around touching the garments. He’d left in a huff. Maybe Beth had heard about that.
He realized what a crazy thought that was. How could she possibly have heard about that?
Olsen went back to watching the door to the café. It was now two-thirty, and the lunch hour was over. The guitar player would be leaving just the way he left every day at this time. He’d go straight to Rootie Tootie’s, where he himself couldn’t get past the entrance to the alley that led to the club. The bastard owner had it so buttoned down, wind couldn’t get through that alley. So . . . that meant he had to make his move sometime between when the guitar player left the café and got to the club, which meant he had to trail him on foot or do a hit-and-run. But then the guy tailing the guitar player would jump into the fray. Somehow, he’d have to dispose of him first. They probably thought he wasn’t aware of the man, some kind of bodyguard no doubt, but he wasn’t stupid—he’d spotted him the first day back.
Olsen’s heart started to beat in wild anticipation of what he was about to do. Then a thought hit him. If he was successful, how was he going to get away? Damn, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The streets were busy; some fool would try playing the hero, that was for sure, if he was on foot. While he knew the streets by now, given the layout of the town, he’d have to make almost a straight run as he hadn’t seen any alleys or cutouts that would allow for a hasty exit. The van then. Do the hit-and-run and barrel ahead, ditch the van at some point, and take off on foot. Which in itself presented a whole host of other problems. While he’d worn the surgical gloves the entire time, he knew his DNA was all over the van. He’d have to set it on fire, and even then, those damn CSI guys could find a stray hair that would link him to the van.
Olsen watched John’s tail. He watched the traffic light, the congestion, the crowds of shoppers with gaily colored shopping bags. Not good. He realized he needed to go back to the drawing board and come up with a better plan. All in all, he had to chalk today up as an exercise in futility. Now he needed to park the van someplace where no one would spot it and call in the cops. The mall was the logical choice, with all the Christmas shoppers, but it was too far. He needed to be close to the club. Close to where Beth was even though he wouldn’t be able to see her. Just knowing where she was made him feel better.
Twenty minutes later, Olsen pulled into a truck stop and parked in the rear. He knew this place, as he’d been here before. For five bucks he could take a hot shower, shave, and change his clothes. For another ten bucks, he could rent a cot and sleep under blankets for twelve hours. He nixed the latter part, preferring to sleep in the van. Maybe he’d change his mind after he ate. He might be sluggish and need a good few hours of solid sleep. He liked this particular stop because they served home-cooked food, pretty much all you could eat. Good food. It beat the fast-food junk he’d been existing on these past days. Good hot coffee, as much as you could drink, and one to go. In his wildest dreams, he never thought he’d live to see the day he would think this place was a five-star establishment. He was used to fine things, not this rough-and-tumble life he’d been forced to lead. And it was all Beth’s fault. He was going to tell her so, too. But then he’d forgive her because he loved her.
A burly trucker held the door for Olsen. The inside of the place smelled good and it was warm. Spaghetti, if he wasn’t mistaken. He could smell the garlic. He almost swooned with happiness. He headed straight for
the back of the truck stop, carrying his canvas bag with a clean set of clothes and his bag of toiletries. He was back in the restaurant in forty minutes, feeling like he’d scaled a mountain. He sat in a booth in the back by himself and ordered the special, which was spaghetti and meatballs. The coffee came first, and he drank it in two long gulps. He held it out to the waitress for a refill. He winked at her, and she winked back as she filled his cup to the brim before she left to place his order.
The last occupant of the booth had left a copy of the Nashville Ledger on the seat. Olsen picked it up and turned to the event page to see what was going on in Nashville for the different clubs. He ran his finger down the list of clubs till he came to the Rs. A very festive month for sure. A lot of good that was going to do him, but at least he knew what was going on. He looked around to see if anyone was watching before he ripped the schedule out of the paper, folded it, and stuck it in his hip pocket. His food arrived a moment later, a steaming platter of spaghetti and four huge meatballs along with half a loaf of crusty bread. He held out his cup again, and the waitress refilled it. There was no winking this time. It was time to eat and time to think.
Jim Mack and two of Arnold Stonebridge’s security, Mike and Dave, patrolled the streets surrounding Rootie Tootie’s, looking for something that shouldn’t be there. A car, a person, something in plain sight that shouldn’t be obvious but was for some strange reason. One of the security men had an “in” that allowed him to run license plates on cars they deemed suspicious. So far, Mike had run a total of sixteen plates, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Today, though, Dave, who claimed to have better eyesight, said he’d seen the same brown van every day for the past week, parked near the café where John Rossmon worked. It belonged to a carpet installer who lived in Forest Hills. The map they had indicated Forest Hills was eleven and a half miles from Nashville.
Jim Mack supposed the owner could be installing carpeting someplace close to the café. People tended to lay down new carpeting before the holidays. He made a mental checklist and told Dave to see if he could come up with a phone number for the owner. He came back dry, which was no surprise. People today were discarding their landlines and relying on cell phones. He himself didn’t have a landline in his apartment back in Garden Grove. Everything today was wireless.
“Then how come that guy doesn’t have some kind of decal on his truck saying he’s a carpet installer? What the eye sees is the best advertisement you can get. Think about it. Stop and really think. How many brown vans have you seen lately? Except for the one we saw a short while ago, that’s the only one I’ve personally seen. Well?”
The two security men looked at each other. Both of them shook their heads. Mike spoke first. “To be honest with you, I don’t ever remember seeing a brown van, at least not one that registered with me. Vans are usually white or black, so that the lettering or the decals stand out.” Dave agreed, as did Jim Mack. Both security men looked at Jim for further directions.
“We might be onto something and we might not be, but the fine hairs on the back of my neck are stirring. When that happens, something is off or not right. I say we split up and cruise around and try to locate the van. John and Beth are safe for now. You guys know this town better than I. Lay out a grid for each of us to cover. If, and I stress the word if, any of us decides this is our guy, we do not act alone. If one of us spots him, then notify the other two, and we’ll take it from there. You all agree?” Jim asked. Mike and Dave nodded. “And not a word of this to John or Beth.” Both men nodded again.
Dave pulled a small, tattered notebook out of his back pocket. He spread out a city map of Nashville, pinpointed their location, then assigned a grid to each man. “We can meet up at a given time at Logan’s Steak House and compare notes. What time is good for you all?”
“Six. It’s dark by then, so a brown van is going to be pretty hard to pinpoint after that. Six it is,” Jim said as he accepted his small, hand-drawn map. “But if you do spot it, call ASAP.”
The men split up and went their separate ways.
As Jim said later, traffic was a bitch. He grumbled that he did more starting and stopping than actual driving. He was fast closing in on the time to meet up at Logan’s when his cell phone chirped. “Yeah.”
“It’s Mike. I think I have the brown van pinned down. I stopped at a truck stop to get gas and had to wait in line, so I drove around the back of the place, and there, big as life, was a brown van. I’m still here. This is one of those places where truck drivers can shower and rent a cot for ten dollars if they want. I think he’s here. What do you want me to do?”
“Do nothing. Give me directions, and I’m on my way. Did you call Dave? No? Well, call him, and we’ll all meet up. Do not, I repeat, do not go inside until we get there. Don’t even go near that van.”
Jim felt an adrenaline rush, then he cursed. He, literally, had to go across in rush-hour traffic. He actually debated parking his car and running the distance, but the idea was so ridiculous he didn’t give it a second thought. Instead, he lay on his horn and cursed some more as he inched his way forward.
It was two minutes shy of six o’clock when he pulled into Donovan’s Truck Stop under a sign that said GOOD EATS in blazing neon. He drove slowly past the gas pumps, his gaze taking in everything. The place was lit up like a stadium during football season. He spotted Mike parked next to an eighteen-wheeler Peterbilt. He parked, got out, and joined Mike and Dave, who had arrived just moments after he did. Jim climbed into Mike’s car.
“What’s the plan, Jim?”
Yeah, Jim thought, what is the plan?
“One of you will go inside. It can’t be me because I’m positive he’s seen me at the kids’ apartment and back in Garden Grove. Cozy up to one of the staff. Waitresses love to talk if they see a big tip in the offing. Don’t be chintzy now. Cook up some story—you were supposed to meet your buddy here but there was an accident on the highway, yada yada yada. Find out if the guy is doing the sleep thing. While you’re doing that, Dave and I will take a crack at the van. Unless you guys can think of something better.” He waited.
When neither man had a better idea, Jim said, “Okay, let’s do it.”
“I can jimmy the lock. It’s an old van with nothing fancy to secure it. You watch the door, okay, Dave?”
Jim had the van door open within seconds. He climbed inside and started to breathe through his nose. Sweat, body odor, rancid food containers, and stale cigarette smoke assailed his nostrils. Five minutes into his search, he knew that the guy who inhabited this van was no carpet installer. He knew in an instant that he’d hit the mother lode when he smelled the same aftershave lotion he’d smelled back in the English house in Garden Grove. But it was the sleeping bag that convinced him Luke Olsen was living in this brown van. Unfortunately, he didn’t find anything to prove that. There were no telltale signs he’d left behind. Just the smells and the sleeping bag. He perked up a second later. The sleeping bag would be full of DNA.
Still, the man hadn’t done anything to warrant calling the cops. Unless he’d stolen the van. Which was more than likely. More than likely my ass, the detective thought. The miserable cretin stole this van sure as I’m sitting here.
Jim climbed out of the van and walked over to Dave. “I am ninety-nine percent certain Luke Olsen is living in that van and that he stole it from the guy in Forest Hills. He’s got a sleeping bag in there, which I’m sure is full of DNA. Our problem right now is that if we turn him in or call the cops, he’ll probably make bail thanks to his wealthy parents. That will put us back to square one. If we don’t call the cops and start tailing him, we might be able to nail him as the stalker. I need to think about this a little more. Right now, you go into that truck stop and get Mike out here.”
Dave sprinted off to the entrance. Jim climbed back into Mike’s car and waited. Damn, it was cold. He didn’t give the cold a second thought when he let his thoughts take over. They’d found him. By God, they’d really found him. F
rom here on out, the trick would be not to lose him. More security. As much as Mr. Stonebridge could supply.
When the door closed behind Mike and Dave, Mike leaned across, and said, “It’s him. He got there around three and ate a big dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. Drank five cups of coffee. He was offered one to go but he said he changed his mind and was going to rent a cot for a few hours. He signed up for shower privileges when he arrived.”
“Is the waitress going to squeal on you?”
“I hope not. I gave her fifty bucks, and she said she goes off duty at six. It’s almost that, so I think we’re safe, at least for now,” Mike said.
“Okay, let’s hit that steak house and map out a plan. One of you call Mr. Stonebridge and have him send out a few guys to stake this place out.”
Mike laughed. “Mr. Mack, this isn’t our first rodeo. Mr. Stonebridge is my boss, and I report to him. I already called him. He said two men would be here by six-ten. And since he said six-ten, he means six-ten. Not six-eleven. You want to make a bet?”
Dave looked at Jim and burst out laughing. “Don’t bite.”
“Nope. I’ll take your word for it. By the way, dinner is on me tonight.”
“And the beer? We are off duty now.”
“Yep, and the beer, too.”
Chapter Twenty-one
A low rumbling sound found its way into Luke Olsen’s subconscious. He stirred, stretched, then rolled over on the narrow cot. His eyes popped open. Where the hell was he? Not in his sleeping bag, that was for sure. Plus he was warm, sweaty actually. Bright lights, red, blue, green, permeated the room. Damn! The rumbling noise grew louder, followed by another loud rumble. And then he remembered he was at the truck stop, and he’d rented a cot. The rumbling sounds were the eighteen-wheelers pulling in or leaving. The colored lights were the neon lights advertising the truck stop and could be seen for miles from the highway.
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