Solid as Steele

by Rebecca York

  “Hit and run accident.”

  “Oh. That must have been rough on you.”

  “No worse than what you went through,” Jamie answered. She dragged in a breath and let it out. “Did the police come up with any clues about what happened to Tim?”

  “Nothing. They assumed it was a robbery gone wrong.”

  “He was an auto mechanic?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the body shop was robbed?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Conrad shifted in her seat. “You said you were investigating murders.” She glanced toward the hallway where her son had disappeared, then lowered her voice. “Does this have anything to do with those two women who were killed recently?”

  “We think it may.”

  “Why?”

  She glanced at Mack, wondering how much was okay to say.

  He answered, “Because your husband was found in the same area.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize.”

  “Did you or your husband know either of the women who were recently murdered?” she asked.

  “Tell me their names again.”

  “Lynn Vaughn and Jeanette Baker.”

  Mrs. Conrad thought for a few moments, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I never heard those names before. Obviously they didn’t stick in my mind from the news accounts.”

  “Can you think of anything that would link your husband to them?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything at all.”

  She gave a small shrug. “They all lived in Gaptown, I guess.”

  “Yeah,” Mack said, jumping into the conversation. “You never went to the Emmanuel Parish Church?”

  She shook her head. “We’re Baptists. That’s Episcopalian.”

  Mack asked another question. “Did anything unusual happen to your husband in the days or weeks before he was killed?”

  “Unusual like what?”

  “Did he come home and tell you he’d had a fight with a customer? Did he have any disputes about money?”

  Again, she considered the question. “Of course people would get mad at him when the police called and asked him to tow their cars. They’d act like it was his fault.”

  “Right. Any incident in particular?”

  “I can’t think of anything.”

  “Was he having any disputes with his friends or relatives?”

  “No. Tim was a very…mild-mannered guy. He did his job, but he wasn’t really good friends with any of the men at the shop. Getting into fights with people wasn’t his style.”

  Mack nodded and stood. “We appreciate your talking to us. Thank you so much for your time. If you think of anything, please let us know.” He took out his wallet, pulled out a card, and handed it to her.

  She looked at it, then bent it back and forth in her hand, and Jamie wondered if she was going to toss it into the trash when they left.

  “We’re going to be in town for a few days,” he added. “If you want to talk to us in person again, let me know. We’ll be glad to come back over.”

  When they exited the house, Jamie dragged in a breath and let it out in a rush.

  “She’s got it tough.”

  “I guess it was hard for you to talk to her.”

  “Yes. But I wanted to do it.”

  As she started toward the car, he held his arm in front of her. “Wait a minute.” Once again, he scanned the area before dropping his arm. “Okay. Come on.”

  When he started for the car, she hurried to keep up. They both got in, and he locked the door.

  Mack waited until he’d driven off before saying, “What she says doesn’t make perfect sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She said there was a robbery at the auto shop where he worked. Then he turned up dead along the road.”

  “So?”

  “If someone killed him and stayed around long enough to rob the auto shop, you’d think they’d want to get out of there quickly when they were finished, but they took the time to wrap him up in a tarp and bundle him into their car. That was taking an additional risk.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Maybe someone wanted it to look like a robbery, but there was actually another motive. Maybe they didn’t even kill him there. He could have been in the funhouse like the other victims, only nobody knew about it. Nobody knows about it now but us.”

  “Because of my dreams,” she murmured.

  “Yeah.”

  She felt a small jolt of satisfaction. So he believed in the dreams. But she didn’t press him on it. “How do we find out?” she asked instead.

  “Keep digging. If the three murders are connected, we’ll come up with something.”

  “We’ve already been digging for a couple of days.”

  “This isn’t a TV show where the detective has to solve the crime in an hour minus commercials.” He stopped a moment and then muttered under his breath, “We should have asked her more about the towing he did for the police department.”

  “Why would that be significant?”

  “Because the murders could have something to do with a police case.” He turned the corner, checking his mirrors. “We can probably check on that online.”

  “You think that’s true of the women, too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She sat quietly for a few moments, then changed topics. “If it was the killer who went after me, how would he even know who I am?”

  “He could have been lurking around the site where Lynn Vaughn was dumped.”

  “Why would he do that? Wouldn’t that be dangerous for him?”

  “Some unsubs like to get involved.”

  “Unsubs?”

  “Unknown subjects. If you don’t know his name, it’s a convenient designation. He could even have tipped the cops off on where to find the body, then made sure he had a hiding place where he could watch. He might even have picked the location with that in mind.”

  “But why?”

  “Because it added to his satisfaction to watch the cops discover the body.”

  She shivered.

  “We’re talking about someone who’s…disturbed. Or very focused on this set of circumstances.”

  “And you’re saying he saw us? But why did he go after me and not you?”

  “If you had to make a choice, would you go after a six-foot, two-hundred-pound guy or a five-foot-four, hundred-pound woman?”

  “You have a point. But I weigh more than that.”

  “Not much.”

  “There’s something else,” she said. “The women were dumped beside the road, with no attempt to make it look like anything but murder. But Mrs. Conrad said the station actually was robbed. That sounds different.”

  “That could be right. Or the guy could have decided that once he got away with the first one, he didn’t need to fake anything.”

  MACK SLID JAMIE A sideways glance. He liked the way she was thinking this through, coming up with ideas. And he liked the way she’d dealt with Mrs. Conrad. She was good with people, and she had the advantage of sharing a very personal experience with the woman. He’d watched them together, and he was sure that the bond of widow-hood had helped in the interview. As far as he could see, the woman was being straight with them. She’d told them what she knew, which wasn’t much. But she had his card, and maybe she’d think of something later.

  They stopped at a grocery store on the way back and got some supplies, including milk, cereal and bags of chips and pretzels.

  Jamie sighed as they brought the bags to the suite. “I hate living on this stuff.”

  “You’d rather cook?” he asked.

  “Actually, I would.”

  “If you could fix anything you wanted, what would it be?” he asked as he set down the food on the dinette table.

  She thought for a moment. “Coq au vin.”

  “Fancy!”

  She grinned. “Just a French name for chicken in wine sauce.”

  “I’d love to taste
it.”

  The grin faded from her face, and he thought he’d stepped over another line that she didn’t want him to cross. First he’d made love to her. Now he was thinking about her cooking for him.

  Slow down, Steele, he warned himself.

  When Jamie excused herself and disappeared into her room, he breathed out a little sigh. He had some business to attend to, and he’d like to slip out while she was sleeping.

  That sounded like a good plan until he remembered that she might have a nightmare, and he wouldn’t be there to wake her up and hold her in his arms.

  Was that what he wanted? Any excuse to climb into her bed again?

  He wrote her a message on the hotel notepad, telling her he was going out, and if she woke up, she should stay in the suite. He set it on the sofa where he assumed she’d see it if she came into the living room. Still, he didn’t like leaving her.

  Before he could change his mind, he stepped into the hall, closing the door quietly behind himself.

  IN THE BEDROOM, JAMIE lay rigidly in bed. When she heard the door close, she waited for several moments, then got up and cautiously opened the bedroom door. Mack was not in the living room, and when she walked in and looked around she found a note on one of the sofa cushions.

  I have to go out for a little while. Don’t leave the suite while I’m away. Mack.

  Now he was giving her orders. And not even telling her where he was going.

  Damn!

  A while ago, she’d thought about making him dinner—which was not a good sign. She was a good cook, and she’d made dinners for Craig to impress him before they were engaged. She didn’t have to make an impression on Mack Steele. They weren’t dating.

  No, she’d skipped that step and gone right to bed with him.

  She clenched and unclenched her fists. She should call one of her friends who was still in town and ask if they could drive her back to Baltimore. In the next second, she remembered that she’d insisted on staying here to help with the investigation.

  She couldn’t even keep her priorities straight. What did she want more—to find the killer or to get away from Mack? Maybe she should leave him a note saying that she was getting her own room. Only he’d told her not to go out. And come to think of it, the killer had tracked them down here once. He could come back.

  Her gaze shot to the door. Quickly she crossed the room and pushed the safety bar into place, making it impossible for anyone to open the door from the outside. Now she’d have to wait up for Mack to let him back in, and she would have preferred to be in her room when he came home. On the other hand, she wanted to ask where he’d sneaked off to. Or was that acting like a wife who didn’t trust her husband?

  No. Not at all. It didn’t matter to her if he was seeing another woman, although that was hardly likely in Gaptown. He didn’t know anyone here.

  She stopped short in the middle of the room and ran a shaky hand through her hair, knowing that her thoughts were completely jumbled. She should be focused on finding out who had killed those three people, and instead she was worrying about her relationship with Mack. She could no longer deny she was falling for him. Still, she didn’t have to go racing into his arms.

  Walking to the desk, she pulled open a drawer and found the local phone book. If Mack wasn’t going to take her out to investigate the case, she could do something here. She still knew plenty of people in town. Maybe someone could give her information about Aubrey Rollins, the guy who’d dated both women. Maybe by the time Mack got back, she could tell him something he didn’t know.

  Flipping through the book, she thought of old friends, then settled on Marilyn Westerly and dialed her number. They’d been friends in high school, and Marilyn had come to her wedding in Baltimore.

  Her wedding… she pushed that out of her mind and began to dial.

  MACK TURNED ONTO THE street where Jamie’s mom lived, then drove past the house, looking at the lights in the front window and the beat-up Ford parked in front. He remembered seeing it when they’d first come over. Then Clark Landon had gone out, and the car had no longer been there. It must be his.

  Of course, it wasn’t the truck that had tried to run Jamie over. Or the SUV from this afternoon. But it was easy enough to borrow—or steal—another vehicle.

  So was Landon home or not? And if so, how long would he stay home?

  Mack wanted to talk to the guy, but he didn’t want Jamie’s mother to know about it, so he drove to the end of the block, then pulled up under a maple tree and sat watching the house.

  Twenty minutes later, Clark Landon strolled outside and walked to his vehicle. Mack slapped the steering wheel and uttered, “All right.”

  Maybe the guy was going to a place he’d rented out in the country and had turned into a funhouse. Or maybe he was just getting away from the woman of the house, since she didn’t seem like the kind of person you’d want to hang around with and make happy conversation.

  When Landon drove away, Mack hung back, then started his SUV and waited until the guy was almost to the corner before following. He drove toward downtown, then veered off into a commercial area, where he pulled into a parking lot beside a bar called Louie’s. The lot was full of pickup trucks and SUVs.

  From across the street, Mack studied the grimy red brick exterior of the one-story building with a neon sign in the front window that said, “Open.” He remembering that Landon had mentioned the place when he’d left the house the night before.

  Mack drove a little way down the block and parked, waiting in his car until Landon went inside, then gave the man another ten minutes to get settled in his regular routine before crossing the street.

  When Mack stepped inside, the smell of beer and smoke almost knocked him over. He let the door close behind him and stood there looking around. The walls were made of old-style knotty pine paneling, and peanut shells littered the floor. The tables were old and wooden, with barrel-shaped chairs around them. The bar was nothing special and occupied the wall across from the door. Behind it were several lighted signs advertising beer companies.

  It was a working man’s establishment. All the patrons were men, and all were dressed in jeans and flannel shirts or work shirts—Landon included. He was standing at the end of the bar with a mug of beer in his hand.

  Mack studied the man. He was almost six feet tall and a bit on the chunky side. With the ski mask, he could be the guy who’d tried to force Jamie into the SUV, but there was no way of knowing for sure. Were his eyes brown?

  Mack walked up beside Landon and slid onto a bar stool, like he was just a regular coming in for a drink.

  Landon didn’t look to see who was beside him. Did he usually like to drink alone, Mack wondered, or was something eating at him?

  The bartender came over, looking him up and down, probably wondering how the stranger had found his way into this place.

  “What’ll you have?”

  “Wild Duck,” Mack answered.

  At the sound of his voice, the man he’d been following turned his head, looking surprised.

  “You!”

  Mack answered with a tiny nod.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “There are plenty of other places to drink in town.”

  Mack shrugged. When his beer arrived, he took a sip.

  “What do you really want?” Landon asked.

  “To make you think.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll bet you can figure it out.”

  “I’m not going to play guessing games with you.”

  Mack shrugged and took another sip of his beer, aware that the background buzz of voices in the bar had ceased. The other patrons had stopped what they were doing to follow the conversation between Landon and the new guy.

  He might have turned around to tell them to mind their own business, but he figured that wouldn’t go over so well with this crowd, so he stayed with his back to the room.

  “G
et out of here,” Landon said in a low voice.

  “This is a free country.”

  “I don’t like you and that daughter of Gloria’s comin’ around making trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Maybe you’re the one making trouble.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Mack shrugged, hoping to get a rise out of the guy.

  “I’m talking to you.”

  When Mack didn’t answer, Landon pulled him around on the bar stool with his left hand and aimed a right hook at his chin.

  Chapter Nine

  Mack was ready for the move. He dodged the fist as he sprang up and leveled his own punch, catching Landon on the jaw. They were both standing now, both in the middle of a battle that Mack had provoked. Not because he wanted a violent confrontation but because he thought it was the only way to communicate with Landon.

  He traded another round with the jerk, ducking to avoid a direct blow to his eye but catching a fist on the forehead. Landon didn’t have much style, but he had the power to inflict damage.

  As Mack was about to come back with another right, two men caught him from behind and held his arms. To the credit of the regulars in the bar, two of them also came up behind Landon and stopped him from delivering another punch.

  The bartender looked from him to Landon and back again. “You come here to make trouble?” he asked.

  “I came here for information.”

  “It sounds more like you came in to pick a fight.”

  Mack didn’t answer.

  “Unless you get the hell out of here, I’m going to call the cops. Is that what you want?”

  “No,” Mack muttered, sorry he hadn’t thought his strategy through. He’d been keyed up for action and simply gone with gut instinct.

  “Let me go,” he said to the men in back of him.

  “If you head for the door and don’t do anything stupid on the way out,” the bartender answered.

  Mack jerked his head toward Landon. “What about him?”

  “He comes here regular.”

  Mack sighed. It wasn’t going to do him any good to argue the justice of the pronouncement.

  Instead, he turned and walked toward the exit. He didn’t rub his sore forehead until he’d gotten outside.