Rob Cornell - Ridley Brone 01 - Last Call (3 page)

“Why the retirement if he misses it?”

“He said he got sick of digging up all the bad things about people.”

I turned the chair back to the PC and started clicking through Doug’s files, looking for word-processing documents or spreadsheets, maybe some photos. When I didn’t find anything in the obvious places, I used the PC’s search function to ferret out specific file extensions. It wasn’t what I found that bothered me, but what I didn’t find. Not a single document, spreadsheet, photo, music file, or anything else was saved on the computer besides software applications that typically came pre-installed.

“How long has Doug had this computer?”

“Few years,” Autumn said.

“He mention having any problems with it, have to reformat or anything?”

“Not to me. Why?”

“Probably nothing,” I said.

I ditched the computer for now, stood, and crossed to the filing cabinet. With Autumn’s help, I dug out Doug’s most recent credit card statements and brought them back to the desk. I had Autumn sit in the chair and scan the statements for anything unusual while I stood looking over her shoulder, only occasionally distracted by the scent of her hair. I almost missed the charge on a statement Autumn began to set aside.

“Hold it.” I pointed to a line on the statement listing the company name as Zippy Gas, Inc. “What about that?”

“Gas station,” Autumn said. “So what?”

I slid my finger across to the column that declared where each charge was made.

Autumn read the city out loud. “Detroit?”

“Doug often spend time in Detroit?”

“Why would he?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“Detroit’s almost three hours away,” she said, the pitch in her voice raised. “What was he doing clear out there?”

I stepped back, giving her space.

She stood, turned around, in her eyes almost an accusation, as if I’d made this happen. The look quickly faded.

“Guess I asked for this,” she said. “Why else would I have brought you over here?”

“There’s no explanation that you can think of? Does he have family or friends out there?”

“His family’s from out West. He doesn’t talk to them. I’ve never even met them.”

“Friends?”

She pressed the fingers of one hand against her temple and squeezed her eyes shut. “Not that I know of. I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Let’s go through the rest of these statements.”

We found nothing else unusual. Not even another charge outside Hawthorne. The charge in Detroit could have been either a fluke or a mistake from an otherwise careful man.

After setting aside the last statement, Autumn sat at Doug’s desk with her head in her hands.

I stood behind her, wanted to rest a hand on her shoulder. I pretended to be a professional and kept my hands to myself. “You could be wrong about him.”

She popped out of the chair and faced me. Her fingers fiddled with the frayed strings dangling from her cut-offs. “What if I’m not?”

I hesitated, knowing what I should say and what I wanted to say. Once more, I played the professional. “That part comes after my job is done. I can’t help you with that.”

I was halfway home when I finally spotted the tail—a black Lexus sedan that was either brand new or had recently been detailed. Sunlight reflected off the car’s polished hood like a beacon, yet it had taken me this long to realize the car had been following me since I left Autumn’s subdivision.

Man, was I rusty.

I pulled to a stop at a red light and scoped out in my rearview mirror the Lexus sitting two cars behind me. I couldn’t get a good sight of the driver because the windows were tinted.

When the light turned green, I pulled through the intersection, keeping one eye on the rearview to keep my tail in sight. If I wanted to lose him, I could floor it, though I’m not sure my Civic could outrun his Lexus if he wanted to make a chase out of it. It was midday on a Friday, not too many people on the road yet, so using traffic as a screen wouldn’t work either. A few quick turns down a side street or two would probably do the trick. But why was this guy following me in the first place?

I decided not to play the game.

To get to Autumn’s house from mine, you had to travel through Hawthorne’s commercial district. Restaurants and shops lined the street on both sides. I waited until I reached a stretch where parked cars jammed the curbs, then scanned each building as I passed. I found a coffee house on the left with its own small parking lot and jerked the wheel at the last minute, cutting across traffic, nearly clipping the front end of a Mini Cooper.

My front tires thumped over the inclined entrance to the parking lot as I hit it going too fast. I braked the moment I cleared the street and watched my rearview until I saw the Lexus pass, then I pulled into an empty space.

With no available street parking, if my new groupie wanted to stick with me he’d have to circle the block and pull into the parking lot. Then we’d have this out. No tailing bullshit.

Twenty minutes passed with no sign of the Lexus.

I checked my watch, decided I didn’t have time for my usual nap before opening the bar, and would have to settle for a caffeine buzz to get me through the night. I went inside the coffee house, ordered a large house blend, and found a window seat.

A Muzak version of an Aerosmith song violined and fluted its way out of hidden speakers. I hung my head in sadness at the far reach of Muzak’s dark hand.

Through the window, I spotted the Lexus pull into the parking lot. Autumn’s father, Lincoln Rice, got out. Our eyes met through the window as he approached, and a blip of recognition crossed his face.

A bell rang when he swung open the door. He marched right to my table and sat across from me. He looked exactly as I remembered him—his gray hair long and worn in a ponytail, his tight-skinned face seared with a permanent tan. I’d only met him one time, but his face had etched itself in my memory. He was the last thing connected to Autumn I had seen before leaving Hawthorne.

A hemp necklace threaded through some beads hugged his neck above the open collar of his pinstriped dress shirt. If he swallowed hard enough, the rope looked like it might break. A tiny gold hoop hung from his right earlobe. He still wore a gold wedding band, though I knew his wife had died when Autumn was only eight.

Lincoln leaned forward, gripping the small round table on either side as if it were a giant steering wheel. His eyes narrowed. “I know you.”

“I was a friend of Autumn’s in high school.”

He sucked his teeth. “I’m not placing it. What’s your name?”

“Ridley Brone.”

“Brone,” he said as if chewing my name. “You’re Trina and Allen’s kid.”

“You knew my parents?”

He frowned. “Everybody in Hawthorne knew Trina and Allen. What I’m wondering …” He put his fingertips together, brow furled. “What were you doing at my daughter’s house?”

“Like I said, we’re old friends. I was out of town for a long time—”

“You’ve been back almost a year.”

“Eight months.” I leaned back. “I thought you didn’t know who I was.”

“You’re Trina and Allen’s kid,” he said, giving me a palms up shrug. “I’m sorry about what happened to them. Terrible accident.”

“Accident?” I’d heard a few people call it that, and every time it got my blood hot. “They were murdered. Carjacking.”

“As I understand it, the criminal never got the car.”

“It wasn’t an accident, is what I’m saying.”

Lincoln’s gaze flicked down toward my chest. “Nice shirt, by the way. Are you even old enough to remember Zeppelin?”

I glanced down at my Led Zeppelin t-shirt, half in a daze from trying to keep up with this guy’s train of thoughts. “Not while they were together.”

Lincoln closed his eyes and smacked his lips. “I saw them in seventy-six. You didn’t go to that one?”

“I was three.”

“Of course. Anyway. Back on point.” His eyes locked on mine. “My daughter is married.”

“We’re just friends. It’s not what you think.”

“How would you know what I think?”

I didn’t bother to answer.

“It’s how it looks, Rid,” he said, shortening my name like we were old pals. “It looks bad. Strange man sneaking out of my daughter’s house—”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

He rested a hand on one of mine. His palm felt warm, like sunburned skin. “I don’t want to split hairs about this. I’m just looking out for my daughter.”

I yanked my hand out from under his. “You think she can’t take care of herself?”

“That’s not what this is about. You have good taste in music, you’re obviously not an idiot. Look at it from my side.”

I looked out the window, pretended to think it over. “Fine. I see your point. It looked weird.”

“That’s not my point at all.”

I didn’t say anything, and Lincoln laid it out for me.

“My point,” he said and stood, “is that you need to stay away from my daughter. I don’t care about old friends or whatever. It’s clear what you want from her.”

My throat closed. “Oh, yeah?”

He picked up my coffee, took a sip, then set the cup in front of me and pointed at it. “Doesn’t feel so good, does it? Having another man sip what’s yours?”

My jaw tensed. “I’m not sure I know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Just stay away from her. Whatever little romance you once had, you’re not going to rekindle it.”

Before I could even deny his accusation, he stormed off, the door’s bell dinging in his wake.

I lifted my coffee to my lips, caught myself, and dropped it in the trash on my way out.

Chapter 3

My tires squealed as I turned into the
High Note’s
parking lot. I caught a glimpse of Sheila as I raced my way to a parking spot. She stood to one side of the bar’s entrance, arms folded, a scowl on her face.

I jerked into the first spot available, jammed the car into park, and had one foot out the door before even cutting the engine.

“Judging from the speed of your arrival,” Sheila said when I met her at the door, “I don’t have to tell you you’re late.”

I held up my hands. “Don’t shoot.”

“Where were you?” she asked and stepped in my way when I tried to walk past her into the bar.

“Running errands.” I cringed at my own lame excuse. “Is everyone here?”

“Most.” She scowled at her watch. “Some left. They couldn’t get in.”

Uh-oh. “Paul has keys.”

“No one has seen him, nor heard from him. Lucky for you, I happened to stop by. Has it ever occurred to you to give your employees your cell phone number?”

My cheeks grew warm. I scratched the back of my neck, giving me an excuse to look at my feet. “They’ve got it.”

Sheila’s mouth turned to a straight line. “You never charged your phone.”

I gave her my showman’s smile, just like Mom and Dad had taught me—guaranteed to win over any audience.

One eyebrow shot up almost a full inch. “You are hopeless.”

“Let me try calling Paul. I’ll straighten this out.”

“It’s been tried.”

I glanced toward the parking lot, feeling the impending Friday rush like a building storm. Any minute they’d start pulling in, demanding inebriation and a chance to make fools of themselves on stage. Savages.

“If Paul isn’t here, who’s going to tend bar?”

Sheila’s eyes narrowed. “Since you failed to take the time to hire a back-up—”

“He wanted to work every shift. I didn’t think I needed a back-up.”

“Indeed.”

I waited for more, but “indeed” was apparently her final answer.

“What are we going to do?”

A silver Mercedes rolled into the lot and parked next to my car. The driver-side door opened, releasing a thick could of smoke. A leg clad in sparkling gold stepped into view, and then Hal emerged through the smoke cloud wearing a gold jumpsuit, the zipper open practically down to his navel.

Sheila grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the bar. “There’s only one option.”

I tugged my arm free. “I don’t know a thing about tending bar. I don’t know a whiskey sour from an
amaretto
sour. Except, well, one has whiskey and the other has amaretto.”

“I was referring to myself.”

“You?”

“Me.”

Hal reached us. “Howdy, Rid. Ready for some rocking and rolling?”

I was too busy gaping at Sheila to answer. Besides… Rocking and rolling?

Sheila ignored him as well. “You never did answer my question. Where were you that you let slip your obligation here?”

“I didn’t let anything slip,” I said. “I got caught up.”

Hal gave a salute, blushing. “See you inside then.” He scooted between Sheila and me, his gold chains jangling around his neck.

“Doing what?” Sheila asked.

“Doing whatever. Does it matter?”

Her scowl faltered. Her gaze fell from my face to the asphalt between us. “I suppose it doesn’t matter to you one whit what your parents wanted.”

“Are you seriously going to guilt trip me here?”

“Yes.” She stared at me, her body so rigid her dangling earrings didn’t even quiver, as if icicles instead of diamonds. “Shouldn’t you feel guilt?”

“I feel guilty enough without your help.”