I laughed.
And pulled my hand away.
“Don’t get used to it, Marc. It’s not intentional.”
“Well, if I intentionally leaned across this table,” he said, “and kissed you the way you ought to be kissed, would that guy at the bar get used to it?”
“Guy at the—”
“He hasn’t stopped staring at you since he walked in the place.”
I nearly gave myself whiplash as I turned to see who Marc meant. And there he was: a guy at the bar. Nursing a beer and a bad temper.
“He needs a haircut,” Marc said, a taunt on the tip of his tongue. “But he still looks like a jarhead.”
“He’s not a jarhead.” The nickname only applied to U.S. Marines. “He’s an army officer and a military policeman. And it sounds like you ran a background check on him after you saw him in the diner this morning, so you know it.”
“Jarhead. Army cop. Whatever.” Marc’s grin would’ve sent a great white shark swimming for cover.
Barrett, however, wasn’t a great white shark.
He scooped up his beer mug, slid from his barstool, and crossed the room to us.
It was a dumb thing to do. Especially for a man who’d seen enough trouble in recent days. And who’d said he wanted me to hit the road rather than stay by his side.
When he reached our table, Barrett piped every ounce of nonchalance into his voice to greet me. “Hello, Jamie. I’m glad to see you’re taking my advice for once.”
“Oh, really? What advice would that be?”
His advice had been an explicit recommendation to forget him, and I wanted to be sure he remembered that. But there were more important matters to worry about. Like the fact Marc and I were meeting far from Fallowfield so the townspeople wouldn’t figure out he was an agent with the DEA.
I said, “If you’re here with your buddy Vance, you should keep moving.”
“I haven’t seen Vance since yesterday. He was supposed to stick to Eric.”
But he hadn’t. And the pain of what had happened to Eric in that seedy motel room had etched itself into Barrett’s face. I tried to harden my heart to his misery—but I couldn’t quite manage it.
I glared at my cocktail, twirled the glass by its long stem. “Then you must be here because you’re thirsty, Barrett. I can’t imagine you followed me.”
“I don’t know,” Marc interrupted. “Personally, Jamie, I’d follow you anywhere.”
Barrett rounded on him like a mad dog in a fight.
“You stay out of this,” Barrett snapped, “unless you want to discuss it with me. Outside.”
“That could be arranged,” Marc replied coolly.
He leaned back in the booth, rested his arms along the top of the banquette. His black leather jacket gaped wide. And gave Barrett a good look at the firearm holstered beneath it.
Barrett’s hand fisted around Marc’s collar so fast, I didn’t see his arm move.
“Wait!” I ordered, grabbing Barrett’s other wrist.
His free hand had already balled into a fist. And his beer mug lay in a foamy puddle. I hadn’t even heard it hit the floor. But half the patrons in the place had. People at tables all around turned to stare.
Barrett, however, was oblivious to everything but Marc.
And he hadn’t let him go.
“Who the hell are you?” Barrett seethed. “And what are you doing with Jamie?”
“That,” Marc replied, “is up to Jamie. Not you.”
I tugged on Barrett’s sleeve. “You’re scaring the customers. Sit down.”
He didn’t.
He didn’t let go of Marc, either.
“Barrett,” I spat, “you’ve spent enough time in the clink this week. Sit. Down.”
I kept a hand on his cuff, scooted over to make room for him on my bench seat. Barrett’s pride kept him on his feet for one more moment. But then he slid onto the seat beside me, not stopping until his hip bumped against mine.
He hooked a thumb at Marc. “Who is this joker?”
“You show me yours,” Marc said, sliding his ID onto the table under the cover of his hand. “And I’ll show you mine.”
Barrett glimpsed Marc’s credentials, shot a sideways look at me.
“What’s this about?”
“This,” Marc said, “is about a heroin pipeline radiating from the little burg you call home.”
“Heroin? In Fallowfield?” Barrett shook his head. “I don’t think so. Some pot, maybe. And people are abusing prescriptions and cooking meth everywhere these days. But heroin? No.”
“Jamie says you’re an army cop.”
Barrett nodded.
“Then you know some soldiers have recently developed heroin habits overseas.”
Just like some soldiers had come home with habits from Vietnam. With the hardship of that conflict, some had self-medicated, turning to marijuana and hashish, two herbs readily grown in that climate. Through the 1970s and into the ’80s, heavy hitters like the Department of Justice blamed those soldiers’ predilection on the rising number of pot grows that had sprung up in the U.S.
But some American institutions, like the New York Academy of Medicine and the U.S. Treasury, had been knee-deep in their own marijuana research decades before the La Guardia Committee offered its report on the stuff in 1944. And for that kind of research, organizations had grown their own pot in greenhouses and even open-air fields all over the country. As a result, wild marijuana could be found in a number of states.
But denial persisted.
And Barrett said, “Soldiers in Fallowfield are pretty few and far between.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “There are some, though. Vance, for instance. You know he has a drug problem even if you won’t admit it. And Charlotte says Eric was using something illegal to ease his pain. It could’ve been heroin, Barrett.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“In that case, we have a deal.”
“How do you figure?”
“The medical examiner will note any needle tracks. If Eric’s got ’em, he can’t hide ’em now. And what do you think his lungs will look like if he was smoking it? I’m also willing to bet the coroner is running a standard tox screen. So we’ll see whether Eric was on drugs, all right. We’ll see it on the page in black and white.”
Barrett sat back in the seat, turned that over in his mind.
“Do me a favor,” I said, though I didn’t like the phrase. It felt too personal. “Just hear Marc out. If the drugs that ruin soldiers’ lives are flowing through Fallowfield, don’t you want to know it?”
Chapter 18
Maybe it was the notion of looking out for other soldiers, or maybe it was because Marc and I plied him with appetizers, but Barrett became willing to settle into a quiet conversation after I hit him with the news of Eric’s alleged drug use. And over the next two hours, Marc took advantage of it. He asked Barrett all kinds of questions about the folks of Fallowfield.
More amazingly, however, Barrett answered him.
But Barrett had been living everywhere the army sent him for close to twenty years. So there was a lot about his old friends and neighbors he didn’t know. Much had stayed the same in the little town—but much had changed as well.
When the hour grew late and the Roadhouse began to empty, we took that as our cue to go. The three of us walked out together. And for a second, I thought there’d be a fistfight over who got to escort me to my car.
So I headed toward my Jaguar with an entourage.
And Barrett didn’t like the car’s condition when he saw it.
“What the hell happened to your bumper?” he demanded.
“And why are you parked behind the building?” Marc added.
“I experienced a little hit-and-run before I reached the interstate. I didn’t want a repeat.”
Barrett crouched to examine the damage. “Did you get a look at the vehicle that did this?”
“Yep. It was Eric Wentz’s car.”
/> “Eric Wentz?” Marc repeated. “The dead man? Jamie, are you sure?”
“If you have to ask Jamie if she’s sure,” Barrett snapped, “you obviously don’t know her very well.”
“Don’t worry, dude. I’m working on it.” And Marc winked at me.
Barrett leapt to his feet, ready to swing those fists of his again.
“Enough,” I sighed. “Barrett, you might’ve got a glimpse of the driver since you followed me.”
“Well, I—”
“Uh-huh. While you’re at it, you might want to ask yourself why Eric’s car isn’t outside his motel room, seeing as how you keep insisting he took his own life.” With my car’s key fob, I popped the lock on the trunk. “And speaking of Eric’s room, you two didn’t see me do this, in case this comes up later.”
I reached into the back of the XJ8, grabbed the knotted plastic bag lining the wastepaper basket I’d pinched from the Starlite Motel. Because Barrett had puked in it, it was proof we’d been where we weren’t supposed to be. Namely, the scene of Eric’s murder. And if Luke Rittenhaus ever got on the ball and stopped considering that death a suicide, I didn’t want evidence such as this giving him wrong ideas about who might be guilty of the killing. So I carried the mess to the Roadhouse’s Dumpster, flung it into the thing.
I couldn’t help but glance across the street after I did so. The Cherry Bomb’s lot was still full, though the Roadhouse’s was practically empty. But among the late-model cars and bumper-stickered SUVs, I saw a particular pickup truck.
There were plenty of trucks rolling around Fallowfield, and I suspected there were plenty more throughout the rest of upstate New York.
But I’d only seen one with peeling paint the color of a butternut squash and rust flaking away around the bed’s wheel wells. I said, “What do you suppose Vance McCabe is doing at the Cherry Bomb?”
Barrett and Marc joined me in the shadow of the Roadhouse.
Marc took in the neon bombing on the strip club’s sign and watched as the fluorescent lady’s brassiere blew away.
“Is that a hypothetical question?” he asked.
“Maybe not. Vance is getting drugs to feed his habit somewhere. What if he’s meeting someone here because he brokered the deal to move the stuff through Fallowfield?”
“Maybe,” Barrett growled, “after Eric’s death, Vance just doesn’t feel like being alone.”
“Oh, he’s looking for company,” I said. “Is company what the two of you came out here for last Friday night?”
“No.” Barrett’s voice was as steady as the helm of a battleship. “We came out here because Eric did.”
“Well, Eric’s not out here now.”
I marched to my car, rummaged around in the trunk.
I still had the trash can I’d swiped from the Starlite because I’d need to dump it far from its liner. I had a first aid kit, fire extinguisher, and spare tire, too. Last but not least, however, my gym bag lay in the bottom of the trunk—and when I saw it, I knew it was exactly what I needed.
Snatching it up, I stripped it of its luggage tag, rifled through it to be sure nothing else bore my name, phone number, or address. I dumped out my running shoes, leggings, and clean T-shirt. But I had plans for all that remained: a hairbrush, body lotion, a curling iron, and some makeup.
I shed the brown wool blazer I’d donned after giving Kayley my suede one, pulled the elastic band from my ponytail, too. When my long, dark hair fell free, I bent at the waist, gave my head a good shake and a flip. I finger-combed some of the tresses so they fell strategically around my face and shoulders.
As a result, I looked a little blowsy.
And a lot more fun than I normally was.
Then, being as ready as I was going to be, I slung the bag’s long strap over my shoulder, locked up my car, and started toward the Cherry Bomb.
“See you later, boys.”
“You can’t go in there,” Barrett said.
“Really? Why not?”
“Strip joints can get rough.”
Marc added, “Not all guys take no for an answer.”
But being a woman, I was already aware of that.
“I’ll go with you,” Marc announced.
“No you won’t,” Barrett said. “Because Jamie’s not going in there, either.”
And for some reason, his intervention made me insanely angry.
“What’s the matter, Adam? You could go in there last Friday, but I can’t go in there tonight? Why? Afraid I’ll be shocked by the view?”
His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
“Do you seriously believe I haven’t seen a woman in her underwear before? Well, I’ve got news. Those strippers haven’t got anything I haven’t seen in my own bathroom mirror.”
A deep, dark flush swept up Barrett’s neck. And Marc choked back a laugh. Which didn’t improve my mood.
But being angry was no way to find out what Vance McCabe was up to.
And whether he was connected to drug trafficking and death.
So I made tracks and tried to regain my calm as I walked across the road toward the Cherry Bomb.
I didn’t approach the club from the front. After all, I wasn’t the kind of clientele the Cherry Bomb normally saw walking through its front door. To try to do so would be to draw unnecessary attention. Instead, I veered toward the back. And the entrance frequented by the strippers.
An old aluminum awning jutted over the portal. And a tall ash can suggested the dancers slipped out here for a smoke from time to time. The back of the club was well lit, too, evidence management knew it had a vested interest in the safety of its employees—or at least wanted to keep its insurance premiums down.
Ignoring the sudden anxiety skittering along my spine, I hitched the strap of my bag a little higher on my shoulder.
But I didn’t get any farther than the threshold.
“Hold it.”
A bouncer frowned down at me from a high stool just inside the club. With his bald head and arms like cannons, he was as big as a mountain and probably just as immoveable. “Do I know you, little lady?”
“Not yet. I just got hired this afternoon.” I offered him my hand. His was the size of a catcher’s mitt. When it closed over mine, I flashed him my it’s-you-and-me-against-the-world smile. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never danced in a club before.”
I let loose with a nervous chuckle I didn’t need to fake.
“I mean, I’ve never danced like this. I’m kinda worried.”
The bouncer looked me up and down as if he were checking for hail damage on the side of his house, and patted my hand with his other paw. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. You’ll do all right. And if anyone gives you a hard time, me and Roy will give ’em what for.”
“Thanks,” I said.
And with that, I was past the gauntlet of the bouncer.
I found myself in a back hall. I’m sure the fire marshal would’ve loved to know it was being used as a storage area. Empty kegs, cardboard boxes, and racks of extra glassware were stacked to the ceiling.
Light spilled into the corridor from a doorway on the right. I drew alongside it, peeped around the jamb. It turned out to be the dressing room for the talent.
And the room was crowded.
A bottle blonde vied for position next to a brunette as both picked over lash curlers, mascara, and lipstick at a poorly lit dressing table. A redhead in a thong bumped into a card table with a burbling coffeemaker as she bent over to adjust the ankle strap on her stiletto Mary Janes. Even from that angle, I was certain she was young enough to still be in high school. Several of the others painting themselves up in front of the mirrors could’ve been grandmothers. But regardless of their ages, they laughed and chatted as one, sharing jokes, advice, and a little bit of ire for a stingy customer named Fred.
I left them to it and walked deeper into the club. I reached the top of the corridor. There, on the right, two black steps edged with glow-in-the-dark tape led onto a
stage. Platforms bulged from either side of the stage. On each, a stripper gyrated while blasting music throbbed in time with my heartbeat. Front and center, another dancer did the bump-and-grind against a shiny fireman’s pole. She wore some kind of filmy minidress over a G-string and pasties. Her lashes, lips, and the dress flared supernaturally white in a flickering black light. And the occasional hoot and holler suggested her audience appreciated her performance.
Ditching my gym bag, I stepped through a black curtain separating the back of the house from the front and entered the club itself. The place reeked of sour beer and fresh testosterone. The tables were packed, and along the front of the stage, men sat elbow to elbow on a row of stools at a countertop uncomfortably close to the action.
In such a crowd, it took me several seconds to spot Vance. Seated at a table and perched on the edge of his chair, he didn’t have eyes for the show. Instead, he yammered into the ear of his companion.
The guy was just an average joe with a slack face, a buzz haircut, and a stylish silk sweater that had cost a pretty penny. He kept his hands on the sticky surface of the table. They were rough and tan and marred with the distinctive round scars of cigarette burns.
Maybe he kept his hands in view to indicate he wasn’t about to go for a gun. But he wouldn’t need to do that, anyway. Two goons at a table behind him were clearly his guard dogs. They watched everything except the dancing girls—and their clothes bulged with unseen personal arsenals.
I didn’t know who Mr. Cigarette Burns was or where he came from, but I was dead certain, as he sat listening to Vance, that he was up to no good. When a waitress bypassed his table, I decided to get a closer look. From a busser’s bin, I grabbed a serving tray of my own, began to weave my way through the crowd.
I sighted Barrett, then, and Marc. Barrett had slid into a spot at a table where one patron had fallen face-first into a bowl of pretzels. Another was heavily engaged in enjoying a lap dance.
Marc, with a hand wrapped around a longneck bottle, had taken up a position at the near end of the bar that ran along the back of the place. Neither he nor Barrett gave any indication that they knew each other. Or that they knew me.
I sidled up to Vance’s table.
The Kill Box Page 14
