He should never have given him the thumb drive.
Until he got home, Stanton had only seen the first picture of the two of them standing outside the motel. There was still room for an innocent explanation. He’d asked Evan about the others but he hadn’t wanted to see them. But then, sitting at home, full of whisky and with the thumb drive burning a hole in his pocket, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from looking. Evan imagined him getting it out of his pocket and turning it over in his hand. Maybe he threw it in the trash only to go back and dig it out again, knowing all the while that in the end he would have to know, just like Evan had said.
And what he’d seen had robbed him of the will to live. Ryder was right. It was his fault and he was going to have to learn to live with it for the rest of his life. But if he thought the worst was over, he was wrong. Fate had one last nasty surprise for him and it had kept the best to last.
He fired up his computer and checked his email, saw something that took his breath away. Stanton had sent him an email in the small hours of the morning. His first, gut reaction was to delete it immediately. There couldn’t be anything in it that he needed to read, needed to know.
But now fate had him where it wanted him, twisting in the wind, just like Stanton the previous night. To look or not to look? And just like Stanton, he didn’t have any choice. He clicked it.
Hey, Evan. I know this is a bad idea and it’s probably the whisky, but I just wanted to say—please don’t blame yourself. I’m sure it won’t help, but I wanted to say it.
Evan stared at the words, swallowed thickly, thought about head-butting the screen. Stanton’s words pulsed in front of his eyes, trying to jump off the screen. He hit delete, smashed his finger into the keyboard so hard it split his nail when it asked him if he was sure.
Just get it out of my sight.
It didn’t make much difference. The message was saved in some dark corner of his mind anyway, ready and waiting to be recalled at any time to torment him. It didn’t rob him of the will to live, but it made him want to live any place other than inside his own head.
Chapter 4
THERE WAS ANOTHER, SOFTER knock on the still open door. Evan looked up and saw Tom Jacobson filling the doorway. Filling was the right word, because Jacobson was a huge man with a grizzled beard who’d played college football before he tore the ligaments in his knee badly enough to end his career. His teeth were crooked and uneven which always surprised Evan since he carried on a dental practice in the office downstairs. Evan often thought he could hear the drill and the patients screaming. He also owned the building making him Evan’s landlord.
‘Tom, come on in. Some root canal work would just about round off my morning. Got any novocaine on you?’
Jacobson smiled and looked at his watch—it was still only eight thirty in the morning.
‘Not a good day so far?’ he said, sitting down in the visitor’s chair. ‘I heard shouting. I thought I’d come and see if everything’s okay. I passed a couple of people on my way up. They looked like cops.’
Evan could see it didn’t look good. If he was a landlord, he wouldn’t want a tenant like him. The whisky bottle and glasses were sitting on the desk not more than six inches from Jacobson’s left elbow. The sleeping bag was still on the floor and the air in the room was stale despite the open window. Cops were involved and there’d been a lot of shouting. All it needed was for someone to get shot in his building now.
‘You’re right, they were cops—’
Jacobson held up a large hand to stop him. The fingers looked like they could pull teeth without needing pliers.
‘I can see something’s been going on, Evan, but I’ve got a patient at nine. You look like you could do with getting it off your chest. Why don’t we get some lunch together and you can tell me all about it then?’
‘Yeah, that’d be good.’
Jacobson was right; he did need to talk to someone, especially after Ryder had touched a raw nerve and set him off about Sarah. His income and ability to pay the rent were also about to take a nosedive.
Jacobson got up to go and grinned at him.
‘I’ll give you a call about twelve thirty. And if you still want a root canal afterwards, we’ll see what we can do about that too.’
***
THEY WENT TO A nice place around the corner from the office, called the French Washroom or something like that. The sort of place frequented by successful dentists, rather than struggling P.I.’s, where they won’t let you have ketchup. The prices made Evan’s eyes water but Jacobson had insisted up front that it was on him.
The maître d’ looked at Evan as if the last time he’d seen him was when he’d caught him taking a shit in the alley outside the kitchen door. He didn’t want to let him in, despite being Monsieur Jacobson’s guest. But it got better when they got to their table. The waitresses all wore short skirts and frilly white blouses that had shrunk in the wash. Evan’s silent prayer was answered when a young and pretty waitress came over to serve them. She brought them their drinks and a couple of bread rolls that looked like they were made from whole vegetarians. He felt healthier just looking at them.
There was a small plate of olives on the table. He took one and ate it and fished the pit out of his mouth. He never knew what to do with them, certainly not in a place like this. If it hadn’t been for Jacobson, he’d have flicked it at the maître d’.
‘You know that song Novocaine for the Soul,’ he said, once he’d taken a swallow of his drink, ‘well I feel like I need a large dose of that, right now.’
‘I don’t know it,’ Jacobson said, ‘but I guess this is a whole lot more serious than a couple of cops giving you a hard time.’
‘It is. You know I’m a private investigator, a private eye or whatever you want to call it.’
Jacobson nodded but didn’t say anything. He took a sip of his mineral water and waited for Evan to continue.
‘It probably doesn’t come as any surprise to hear that it’s not quite as glamorous or exciting as it’s made out to be in the movies.’ Evan took a large swallow of his Margarita and licked the salt round the edge of the glass. ‘Do you know what I spend most of my life doing?’
‘I would guess it’s divorce work.’
‘Exactly. What one of those cops called snapping dirty pictures of some guy or other screwing my clients’ wives. Or vice versa. It doesn’t make you feel very good about yourself.’ He slumped back into his chair and ran a hand through his hair.
‘I don’t suppose it does.’
‘But you get over it. This helps.’ He held up his almost empty glass. ‘It’s uncomfortable and embarrassing when you give them the photos or whatever else you’ve dug up. Some of them cry, some of them get angry and shout at you like it’s your fault. But then they all get up and go back to what’s left of their lives and you never see or hear from them again.’
‘But not this time?’
‘No, not this time.’
He drained his glass and looked round for the waitress, but then remembered Jacobson was picking up the tab. Jacobson waved a hand and told him to go ahead, it sounded like he needed it. Then Evan told him all about Stanton and how they’d sat drinking together and how Stanton had gone home seeming as good as could be expected in the circumstances. And how the next thing Evan knew, Stanton was swinging from a rafter in his garage.
‘And you blame yourself because you made him take the thumb drive home?’
‘Wouldn’t you? That’s what tipped him over the edge.’
‘I don’t know, it’s impossible to say; but I do understand how it would make you feel that way.’
‘And that’s not all. He sent me an email, told me not to blame myself. Can you believe it?’
‘He was in a bad place, Evan. Don’t obsess on it.’
The waitress brought their food. She really was very pretty. Evan was sure she was smiling at him more than the other diners. He dug right into his steak. It was excellent. So were the fries. He w
ouldn’t have put ketchup on them even if they’d allowed it. At least he hadn’t lost his appetite.
‘I can see why you want that novocaine,’ Jacobson continued, ‘but I’m afraid time is the only thing that’s going to make you feel any better.’
They ate in silence for a while; then Evan said, ‘You’re right, but there is one thing that I can do.’
Jacobson waited for him to go on.
‘I’m not going to do any more divorce work. I’ve always hated it, and now this happens. So that’s it. Finito.’ He chopped the air emphatically with his hand.
‘Sounds good. Where does that leave you?’
Evan didn’t need to spend much time thinking that one through.
‘Realistically? Sitting on my butt in my office with rent to pay and no clients.’
‘Well you can forget about the rent to start with. That’s not a problem,’ Jacobson said through a mouthful of seafood risotto. ‘I’m happy to wait until you get yourself back on your feet.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe you can check out my wife for free . . .’ The grin slipped off his face. ‘Sorry, that was a really crass thing to say.’
Evan looked down at the table for a moment, looking hurt. Then he looked up and grinned back at him.
‘That’s okay, I’ve already got those photos . . .’
Jacobson did a double take, realized he’d been had and punched him on the arm. With someone Jacobson’s size, it hurt.
‘I think I’m about ready to do that root canal you were asking about. Unfortunately, I’m all out of anesthetic.’
After they’d finished eating, Jacobson had one last question that was on his mind. Evan told him to fire away.
‘What was all the shouting about? I would have thought it would’ve been quite a somber visit.’
‘So would I, but the fat one was riding me really hard. Letting me know what a worthless sack of shit he thought I was.’
Jacobson looked like he was weighing up the answer in his mind. It obviously came up short.
‘That’s it?’
Evan looked at him, wondering how much to tell him. He really didn’t want to get into it now, but a couple of Margaritas had loosened him up a bit. The guy had been pretty good to him—so what the hell.
‘No, that’s not all. He touched a very raw nerve and I completely lost it.’
Then Evan told him all about Sarah and how she’d disappeared five years ago, how he’d tried to find her and that was why he’d ended up doing what he did now.
Jacobson shook his head slowly.
‘Jesus Christ, Evan, I had no idea.’
‘Not many people do. I don’t talk about it much. Besides, people just want to forget about things like that and get on with their own lives. Nobody really gives a shit. Just another sad story that had everyone’s attention for about five seconds before they got distracted by something more important, like a great, new breakfast cereal flavor.’
Jacobson nodded.
‘I know what you mean. Most people have the attention span of a goldfish. What about the police?’
‘They went through the motions, but they weren’t interested. They decided early on there wasn’t any foul play involved, so they dropped it. Not officially of course, but that’s what happened. People disappear of their own free will every day.’
‘Do you have any idea what might have happened?’
Evan didn’t say anything for a moment. He didn’t know what had actually happened, but there were plenty of ideas that had passed through his mind over the years. Most of them unwelcome, and nothing he wanted to voice now.
‘Nope. She just disappeared without a trace.’
Chapter 5
BACK IN HIS OFFICE Evan was as good as his word—he sat around on his butt wondering what on earth he was going to do to drum up some business. Business that didn’t involve sneaking around motel parking lots in the middle of the night. Business that didn’t make people’s lives worse than before. If he didn’t manage to come up with anything it wouldn’t just be himself he was letting down now, he’d be letting Jacobson down too. It would have been easier if Jacobson has given him an ultimatum on his rent arrears instead of being so damn understanding.
Not only that, but an idle mind is the devil’s workshop, as the old saying goes. It was certainly true in Evan’s idle mind today. The empty whisky bottle sat in the waste paper basket, an unwelcome, accusing reminder of the previous night and the irreparable damage that he’d caused. He’d be beating himself up for a long time to come. He desperately wished there was something he could do to make the situation better but there was no way he could make amends. Stanton was dead and he was probably the only one who cared.
Then there was Sarah. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten. Anybody meeting him would never guess at what went on under the surface. There wasn’t a day went by when he didn’t think about her—although time had softened the edges of his pain. The bitter argument with Ryder that morning had changed all that, taken him straight back to when she first disappeared, the rawness of his grief, his impotent frustration and anger at the police.
The drinks at lunch hadn’t helped either. He rarely had a drink at lunchtime, sticking with coffee to keep him sharp, but today hadn’t been a normal day, so he’d cut himself a little slack. Problem was, it had made him lethargic. He made himself a pot of extra strong coffee to keep sleep and his demons at bay, then slumped down in his easy chair to watch the news on the TV.
***
HE WASN’T SURE WHEN or even how he’d fallen asleep—the coffee should’ve kept him awake for a week—or for how long. It was dark in the office, quiet outside. Something had woken him up. There it was again, a tentative knock at his door. Who the hell was coming around at this time of night? Had Hugh McIntyre tracked him down? But would he even care now? He’d got Stanton’s wife and Stanton’s half of the business for himself now. Besides, he wasn’t the type to knock politely on the door and wait to be invited in. He’d kick it down like Evan had done to him. Or wait for him in some dark alley.
‘Come on in,’ Evan called, ‘it’s not locked.’
But instead of opening the door, whoever it was turned and retreated back down the corridor. He heard the fast click of a woman’s heels. That surprised him, but then an awful thought crossed his mind. What if it was Stanton’s wife? He was in two minds whether to follow her or not. He couldn’t hide from it but was today the right time?
In the semi-darkness he jumped up from his chair too quickly and sent the still half-full coffee pot flying. He made a desperate attempt to catch it but only managed to lose his balance and crash into the filing cabinet behind the desk. Ignoring the pot as it emptied the last of its contents into Tom Jacobson’s carpet, he leapt to the window to see if he could catch sight of his visitor.
He saw her as she ran across the parking lot towards an old Toyota Corolla that had seen better days. She was parked in the corner furthest from the street lights. All he was able to make out was a blond woman in her mid-forties. He’d never seen her before—it wasn’t Stanton’s wife—and he had no idea what she wanted. Or why she changed her mind and ran.
There was still time to catch her. Forgetting everything else, he grabbed his car keys, bolted out the door and ran for the stairs. He took them three at a time, the adrenalin and caffeine supercharging his system. She was turning left out of the parking lot as he crashed through the main doors and sprinted for his car. He leapt into the driver’s seat, slammed it into gear and fish-tailed it out of the lot and into the traffic behind her, horns blaring as he shot in front of the oncoming traffic. He spotted her three cars in front and settled down to a more reasonable speed. Traffic was just right; enough to cover him but light enough for him to easily keep her in sight. Whatever turmoil was going on in her head worked in his favor too.
He followed her for a couple of miles into a quiet residential neighborhood, which, like her car, had seen better days. He dropped back further as there was almost no traffic at all and lost sight
of her. He made a left where he thought she’d just turned, then pulled sharply into the curb, stopping in the shade of a tree. She was turning into a driveway fifty yards farther on. He sat there for five minutes until he was sure she would be inside and drove slowly down the street. He made a note of the house address and license plate number as he drove by. A hundred yards down the road, he pulled over and stopped.
Should he approach her or not? If she was a potential client, he didn’t want to waste any time—he needed to lose himself in something other than guilt over Stanton as soon as possible. And she might not come back. On the other hand, having him knock on her door in the middle of the night, his pants smelling of spilled coffee and his breath of lunchtime’s booze might freak her out.
He had to do it, hope she wasn’t too spooked. He got out the car, walked back to the house. The lights were still on. He put his ear to the door. A faint TV sound came from inside. He rang the bell. The TV sounds immediately got louder, then muted again as an internal door closed. That sort of told him all he needed to know.
Despite that, he’d give it a couple more minutes, having come this far. He strained his ear towards the door. A dog suddenly barked behind him. He jumped and spun round. An old guy with a yappy little dog and a cigarette stuck to his lip stood ten feet away, staring at him while the dog lunged on its leash.
Evan nodded. ‘Evening.’
The guy grunted back, took a long drag on his cigarette and dropped it on the sidewalk.
‘She won’t answer, not at this time of night.’ He spat noisily into the gutter.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because she’s barely come out that door in ten years.’
Evan shrugged. ‘It was worth a try.’ He turned back to the door, called over his shoulder, ‘Have a good night.’
The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets) Page 3
