Settling down, he placed the .45 where he could reach it, then lowered his head onto the pillow. Staring under the bed frame, he watched the narrow gap in the door until his eyelids drooped and he fell asleep.
7
Frank woke with a start, blinking, confused at finding himself on the floor. His eyes focused on something dark and metallic – his .45, lying there, just a few inches from his face – and then he remembered.
He reached out quickly, fingers wrapping themselves about the gun, then held his breath as he listened… but there was no sound. Glancing under the bed, he could see the door was still slightly open, exactly as he’d left it. Relaxing just a little, he exhaled and let his head sink back onto the pillow.
Daylight came shafting down through the gap in the drapes, raising tiny dust motes from the wooden floor boards. He lay there for a moment, staring at them, then pushed himself wearily up onto his elbows, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles. He checked his watch; it was ten after eight. Rubbing his eyes, he gripped the .45 and got carefully to his feet. Moving quietly around the bed, he approached the door, remembering just in time to remove the clothes brush he’d balanced on top of it. Stepping cautiously into the hallway, he could see the broom resting against the front door; in the kitchen, the back door was still blocked by the chair. He lowered his right hand, letting the gun drop to his side. Everything was all right. For now.
He dressed quickly, choosing a white shirt and a dark grey suit; it was warm, but it made him look more like a plainclothes detective, and the jacket helped to conceal his gun. He left his badge on the nightstand, then changed his mind and snatched it up, jamming it into his pocket and hoping he wouldn’t need to show it. Lifting his hat, he went to the front door and moved the broom aside.
There was no doubt in his mind now: Pete’s murder had been a mistake, because he was the real target. But why? What the hell had he ever done? Was it an angry ex-con? That didn’t seem likely. A jealous husband would be nearer the mark; ironically, Pete Barnes was the one person with a genuine motive for wanting him dead.
Taking a breath, he opened the front door. The street looked quiet enough. Stepping outside, he locked the house, then walked to his car.
He needed something more, something to help him make sense of all that had happened. Who was the thin man? He had to get a line on him, maybe see about tracking down that car.
But he couldn’t go to the department.
Frank gripped the steering wheel in frustration. If Kirkland heard he was nosing around, he’d be busted out for good. No, he’d have to come up with another way, find some other loose ends to pull on…
The waitress.
If Faye Griffith wasn’t dead, then maybe she’d left town. And maybe if he found her, he’d find her friend the thin man too.
Frowning, he came to the stop sign at the end of his street and sat there for a moment, looking up at it.
It was a long shot, but he knew he couldn’t go to the police. Not yet, anyway. And it sure beat sitting around, waiting for that grey Chrysler to come creeping up behind him.
Checking his rear-view mirror, Frank gunned the engine and accelerated out onto the main road.
There were two railroad depots in Neosho and he went to both of them. The first was out at the north end of town, a narrow little box of a building with tall windows, surrounded by trees. Inside, a delicate old man in a smart-looking uniform smiled at him politely from the ticket office window.
‘What day would this have been?’
‘Sometime in the last week,’ Frank replied. ‘She might have been traveling with a man – a thin guy in a blue suit.’
‘Ah, well then...’ The old man shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen her, and if she’s pretty like you say, well, I’m sure I’d remember.’
Frank thanked him and went back to his car.
He drove down to the other depot, a much larger building, closer to the centre of town. Here, the middle-aged ticket agent was friendly enough to begin with, but grew wary when asked about Faye.
‘Maybe you wanna tell me why you’re looking for this woman,’ he said, his expression darkening.
‘It’s a police matter,’ Frank growled, pulling out his badge with some reluctance and showing it as briefly as he could. ‘So I’d really appreciate any help you can give me.’
At this, the agent appeared to relax.
‘Hey, no problem.’ He shrugged. ‘You’re not the first guy to come in asking about her, that’s all.’
Frank stared at him, then understood. Of course; the Newton County boys would be making enquiries too. He hurriedly pushed the badge back into his jacket pocket.
‘We’re… working with the Sheriff’s Department,’ he explained. It was deliberately vague, and he hoped it would calm any suspicions the man might have. ‘So have you seen anyone fitting the description?’
‘Sorry, not recently,’ the agent said. ‘But hey, I was thinking; maybe she took the bus. Have you tried asking down at the square? Just head straight down Washington for four blocks, you can’t miss it.’
The Jefferson Lines ticket agent was a serious man in his thirties with round eyeglasses and immaculate slicked-back hair. A large poster on the wall behind him showed a sleek new bus on a scenic mountain road.
‘In the last week?’ he said, frowning in concentration. ‘No, I’m sorry. I know most of the people who come in here – by sight, at least – so I’m sure I’d remember if I’d seen the woman you’re talking about.’
‘Thanks anyway,’ Frank said. ‘Appreciate your time.’
He turned and went outside, pausing on the sidewalk to light a cigarette and gaze out across the broad square, with its two-story brick buildings and tidy storefronts. Ahead of him was a modern-looking courthouse finished in gleaming white stone and surrounded by mown grass and young trees. It all had that homely feel of a traditional small town…
…but someone had planned to kill him here.
He took a deep breath, frustrated by his lack of progress. He needed to defend himself, to strike back, but against who?
Scowling, he tossed the cigarette butt down, and ground it out with his shoe. He was about to head back to his car, when a street sign caught his eye.
Wood Street.
He frowned. Faye had been a waitress at a grill on Wood Street, hadn’t she? He glanced down at his watch, then started along the sidewalk. Maybe he’d go and grab a bite to eat before he drove back to Joplin.
Barney’s All-Day Grill was a modest little place a block south of the main square. Slowing, as though to glance at the menu in the window, Frank peered through the glass. There were a few customers but plenty of empty seats, and he could see a blond waitress standing at the counter. Pushing the door open, he went inside.
When the waitress came to his table, he glanced up at her with a smile. She was in her twenties, with a sky-blue uniform and a round, cheerful face.
‘Hi. What can I get you?’ she said, setting some water down in front of him, then pulling out her pad and pencil. Her name tag read Wendy.
‘I think I’ll have the cheesesteak,’ he replied, looking up at her. ‘And could you do me a favor?’
‘Sure, what d’you need?’ she asked.
‘Could you pass me that paper?’ he said, pointing past her towards an empty table in the corner. ‘If nobody wants it.’
She glanced around, then reached over and handed him the newspaper.
‘There you go.’ She smiled. ‘And your cheesesteak will be right out.’
He watched her moving away between the tables, everything familiar. Saw her greeting a regular customer coming in; she’d been working here for some time. This must be Faye’s friend, the one Carson told him about.
Good.
He unfolded the newspaper, noting the headline: N.Y. GOVERNOR INVESTIGATED OVER SECRET WARTIME MOB DEAL. Hunching over the table, he started to read.
He pushed his plate away and sat back in his chair, feeling full. When
the waitress returned, he greeted her with a satisfied smile.
‘How was everything?’ she asked.
‘It was good,’ he assured her. ‘Real good.’
‘Glad you liked it,’ she said. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No, but you can tell me about Faye Griffith.’ He was still smiling, but his voice was suddenly quiet and serious. ‘I need to find her.’
‘Sorry, mister. Can’t help you.’ She shrugged, but he could already see it in her eyes. She knew something.
‘Maybe I didn’t make myself clear…’ He took out his badge and put it on the table. ‘You know what this means, right?’
‘Okay. So you’re a cop.’ She gave him a sarcastic look and reached out to take his plate. ‘I already told the sheriff, I don’t kno–’
He took her wrist, holding it gently but firmly, the polite smile still fixed on his face as he stared deep into her eyes.
‘It means I’m the law.’
He was pushing his luck here, but what was the alternative? Leave it all to Sheriff Carson? Wait for the thin man to get him in his sleep?
Frank lowered his voice further, leaning in a little so she could hear him.
‘Wendy… do you have any idea what’s gonna happen to you if you hold out on me and someone else dies?’ he asked.
Hearing him use her name seemed to spook her, and her eyes widened.
‘You’re already in way over your head,’ he told her softly. ‘Now, where’s Faye?’
‘I…’ She stared at him in desperation. ‘I don’t know where she is now.’
‘What do you know?’ he pressed her.
Wendy’s shoulders dropped and she looked at the floor.
‘Faye told me she needed a favor. That she needed to get out of town for a while.’
‘No kidding.’ Frank rolled his eyes.
‘Hey, I didn’t know!’ Wendy hissed at him. ‘About the guy who got killed, I mean. Not until after.’
Frank noted her indignation, then nodded slowly.
‘So she needed to get out of town…’ he prompted.
‘Yeah, so I asked Jimmy – he’s my boyfriend, and he’s got a car – and he took her.’
‘Took her where?’
‘Racine. It’s about ten miles west on–’
‘I know where it is.’ Frank frowned for a moment, thinking. ‘Was anyone waiting for her? Did she meet someone there?’
‘Jimmy just dropped her off at the gas station, then came back. That was what she wanted.’
‘When was this?’
‘It was…’ Wendy looked at him uncomfortably. ‘…the same day everything happened.’
Frank sighed.
‘Did she have a bag with her?’ he asked.
‘Yes, a bag and a suitcase. How did you know?’
‘The same way I’ll know if you mention this conversation to anyone,’ he told her, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Anyone. Do you understand?’
She nodded quickly, then said, ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Frank gave her a pleasant smile and released her wrist. Placing an extra dollar on the table, he picked up his badge and got to his feet. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Wendy. I’ll remember that.’
Folding the newspaper, he handed it back to her, then walked past her to the door.
8
The road was a long straight ribbon of asphalt, gently rising and falling as it ran through open country. Frank drove west, his eyes occasionally flicking to the rear-view mirror, but there was nobody behind him. After a while, the railroad crept in on the left, gleaming tracks visible between the patches of brush, running alongside in the middle of nowhere.
Why did Faye ask to come out here?
Eventually, the road swept through a pair of long bends and onto a low bridge that carried it over a twisting creek. Beyond the bridge was a crossroads, with a few small houses screened by trees. On his right, he could see the gas station. Frank slowed down and stopped at the intersection for a minute, gazing out through the windshield. Racine really wasn’t a big place.
He pulled the car round to the right, crawling past the gas station and general store, and moving on up the hill. Ahead of him was a tiny post office with a tall flagpole, the stars and stripes hanging bright against the blue sky. Pulling in on a patch of dirt at the side of the road, he stopped the engine and got out. Stretching his shoulders to relieve the stiffness from his night on the floor, he paused, struck by how quiet the place was. There was no sound at all, except the faint rustle of the trees.
Why had she chosen Racine? There was nothing special round here, just a few scattered houses. He looked across the road, peering at their windows. Had she met someone here? Was she still here somewhere?
Frowning, he turned and walked over to the post office. It was a small, timber building, little more than a cabin. Someone had taken the trouble to plant flowers around the front of the place, but they were withered now, and autumn leaves littered the wooden porch. There was a handwritten note, pinned to the door - Back in 20 Minutes.
He moved across to peer through one of the windows, but there didn't seem to be anyone inside; the place was still and empty. Shaking his head, he started back towards the car.
Against the heavy quiet of the village, his footsteps seemed unnaturally loud… but he could hear something else now - the approaching rumble of a motor - and he looked back towards the crossroads. A bus was coming up the hill, slowing as it drew level with the gas station and pulling over. As it finally came to a stop, he heard the door swing open over the idle of the engine. A young man with an army crew cut got out, swung his bag up onto his shoulder, and set off down the road towards the intersection. Another kid, back from Russia.
Frank watched as the door shut and the bus pulled away, dust and dry leaves rising from the asphalt as it approached. He smelled the warm diesel fumes as it drove past him, noting the name Jefferson Lines written along the side.
This must be the first stop after Neosho. Was that why Faye had come here?
There was an old truck parked at the gas station, rust blooming across its faded paintwork, but nobody seemed to be around. He made his way past the pumps to the general store where several black tires were stacked up beside a newspaper stand. Pressed up against the glass, the front page headline read GOVERNOR’S SECRET DEAL WITH MOBSTER LUCIANO.
Frank pushed the door open and heard the ding of a little bell above his head. Inside, the air was cool, and the place smelled of pipe smoke and coffee. Racks of canned goods and provisions divided the floor into wide aisles. A counter ran along the far wall, and two men were standing there, looking at him with mild interest.
‘Good afternoon to you.’ Sitting beside the register, with a rack of cigarette cartons behind him, the storekeeper was a broad man in his fifties. He wore an open-collared shirt and a brown apron.
Leaning up against the counter, his friend looked older – a thin man with short silver hair and spectacles. He was wearing a US Postal Service short-sleeve shirt.
‘Afternoon,’ Frank said, walking over to them. ‘I was hoping maybe you could help me out.’
‘Do my best,’ the storekeeper replied, standing up. ‘What is it you need?’
‘I’m looking for someone, and I thought she might have come by here.’ Frank pulled out his badge so they could both see it, then slipped it back into his pocket. ‘A woman in her twenties. Brown hair, pretty, maybe carrying a suitcase?’
The storekeeper was already nodding.
‘Yeah, that would have been…’ He paused. ‘Let me see, now… ‘bout a week ago?’
‘You spoke to her?’
‘Passed the time of day, that’s all.’
‘Is she in any trouble?’ the Postal Service man interjected, obviously eager for gossip.
Frank ignored him.
‘Did she buy anything?’ he asked.
‘Bought herself a soda,’ the storekeeper explained. ‘And a bus ticket.’
Frank leaned forward.
‘You remember where that ticket was for?’
The storekeeper smiled and hooked his thumbs into his apron.
‘I sure do,’ he said. ‘Kansas City, one-way.’
Frank took a deep breath and allowed himself a bleak little smile of satisfaction.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Is there a telephone round here that I could use?’
The payphone was over in the far corner of the store, partly hidden by a stack of soap boxes. Holding the receiver, Frank stared at the two men by the counter until they reluctantly looked away and resumed their own hushed conversation.
Carson’s voice crackled in the earpiece.
‘Good afternoon, Frank.’
‘Hello Ray.’ Frank turned his back on the others and leaned in close to the phone. ‘I’m just following up on a couple of things here. Thought you might be able to fill in some gaps for me.’
‘Is that so?’ Carson’s tone was agreeable, but non-committal.
‘Yeah, it’s about that waitress, Faye Griffith. You said she had family, back in Kansas City.’
‘Just her brother, Stanley. What about him?’
Frank reached into his pocket, pulling out his notebook.
‘I need an address for him.’
The line went quiet for a moment. Then Carson began to laugh.
‘You really weren’t gonna tell me, were you?’
Fumbling with his pen, Frank stopped and frowned.
‘Tell you what?’ he asked.
‘You know damn well what.’ The friendly tone was gone now. ‘Think I wasn’t gonna find out you’d been suspended?’
Damn! Frank bowed his head against the wall.
‘Look, it’s just–’
‘No, you look!’ Carson’s raised voice crackled angrily in the earpiece. ‘I’ve been the soul of courtesy with you, but you won’t play straight with me? Well, you’re out on your own now, and you better pray I don’t tell Kirkland how one of his officers keeps calling up, poking their nose in.’
Ashes Of America Page 5
