Denim Detective

by Adrianne Lee

  The Jeep had lain on its side, the baby seat empty, Callie’s favorite stuffed bunny sprawled in the dirt road.

  Callie knew exactly how to release the button on her car seat. The consensus of opinion held that she’d freed herself, climbed out of the Jeep and toddled off into the woods. But no sign of her had ever been found, and Deedra had taken that as proof that her daughter was still alive.

  Proof that Floyd Mann had abducted her.

  But that wasn’t the case, and now she had to face reality. An eighteen-month-old child could not have survived in those woods for more than a few hours. Certainly not days. Certainly not this long.

  “What’s the matter?” Beau reached for her, but she shook herself and stumbled back.

  “Nothing. I’m sorry.” She forced the painful musings away and made herself move. Giving the wagon a wide berth, she hurried up to the porch. There was no sound inside. No children’s voices, no television, no radio. Just silence. Concern for Nell swept her. Had she gotten sick or something?

  Beau joined her on the porch and rang the bell.

  “It doesn’t work. Freddie disconnected it so it wouldn’t disturb the kids during naptime.”

  “Well, if any are napping now, they won’t be for long.” He knocked. The silence seemed louder with every bang of his fist against the wood. At length he said, “She’s not home. I’m going to try and call her on the cell phone.”

  They returned to the car, and while Beau dialed the number written on the day-care sign and listened, Deedra studied the house. It did have the appearance of activity abruptly ceased.

  “She’s not answering her phone, either. You’d think, running a business, she’d have an answering machine.”

  “She does.”

  “It’s not on.”

  “This is just so unlike Nell. I’m concerned, Beau.” Deedra glanced at the split-entry next door. “Maybe we should ask one of the neighbors.”

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Beau started the engine. “We’ve got some mad sniper following us around. We’re perfect targets on this street.”

  He pulled away from the curb.

  Deedra gave the house one last glance. A movement at the second-floor window caught her eye. A curtain? Or sun glaring off the glass looking like movement?

  Beau said, “How did you contact him last time?”

  “I called around. Found him at a hole in the wall called The Copper Spittoon.”

  “That’s way over in the industrial area.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He pulled a U-turn.

  “Beau, there’s no guarantee he’ll be there today. He could be at any one of a dozen dives.”

  “It’s a starting point.”

  Deedra shoved her hands though her short blond hair. In the old days, Freddie and she had hustled guests at the bigger hotels. If they were lucky, they’d end up with enough pocket money to buy a thick steak and a good bottle of wine. Sometimes they’d scammed enough to actually stay in one of the suites for a week or two. But after she “went straight,” as Freddie called it, he seemed to lose all interest in the hustle. She’d never been sure of the reason. Age. Change. Life.

  Her leaving?

  “You see his car here?” Beau asked, pulling between the vehicles parked outside the bar.

  She cast a cautious glance at the few cars around them and shook her head. “I don’t know what he’s driving these days.”

  Beau opened his door, eyeing the building with disdain. “Freddie used to cater to a better class of dive.”

  There was no denying how far Freddie had fallen.

  The Copper Spittoon, as tarnished a watering hole as ever existed, squatted between two abandoned industrial warehouses, the only sign of life on an otherwise dead street. Deedra stepped warily from the car. There was a brownish-red stain on the road as though someone had recently run down a stray dog or coyote, splattering it across the pavement.

  She shook off the ugly thought and gave her attention to the bar. Nothing had changed since she’d last seen it. The filthy windows obscured the interior. A single neon sign hung over the door, winking and buzzing like some aging hooker making crude come-ons to leery customers.

  The inside stank of cigarettes, spilled booze and forsaken hopes. A country ballad—circa Hank Williams, Sr.,—whispered on the air. Something crunched beneath her feet. Peanut shells that she’d bet had been there since the doors first opened.

  Three men hugged bar stools, their heads lost in a haze of smoke. Regulars. None of them Freddie. Beau stepped up to them. “Any of you know Freddie Carter?”

  Six bloodshot eyes turned toward him. The old man on the end squinted at Beau. “Who’d you say?”

  “Freddie Carter. Six foot. Skinny as a post. Dirty-blond hair. Thick brown beard.”

  “Oh, sure, Freddie.” The old man’s head bobbed, then he eyed Beau more closely. “You a cop, ain’t ya.”

  Beau nodded.

  The other two men shifted back to their respective drinks on hearing Beau was police.

  But the old man just squinted harder, glancing at Deedra. “She ain’t no cop, though.”

  “No,” she agreed. “I’m not.”

  He focused his attention back to Beau. “Freddie done somethin’ wrong?”

  “Not that I know of. My business with him is strictly personal.”

  The old man raised a disbelieving eyebrow and reached for his beer. “Well, I ain’t seen him in a week or so now. You might try The Pit. He hangs there off and on.”

  Beau clapped him on the shoulder and laid a twenty next to the man’s icy mug. “Are you sure you haven’t seen him? This is real important.”

  The man’s gnarled fingers snatched up the money and he stuffed the bill into his pants pocket. “I still don’t know where he is. I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him in a week. Say, now, come to think of it, that’s kind of strange. Wonder where he is?”

  “Probably hiding from me,” Beau whispered to Deedra. “Knows I’ll skin him for siccing a killer on you.”

  Deedra spied a man near a booth in the back, leaning down, talking to someone she couldn’t see. She tugged Beau’s sleeve and directed his gaze. “That bartender was on duty the day I met Freddie here.”

  Beau and the bartender exchanged names, but all Deedra caught of the other man’s was “Wolf.”

  Wolf stood all of five-seven with a shaved head and bulging muscles beneath a skintight T-shirt. His smile showed big, white canine teeth. He exuded nervous energy, giving Deedra the impression that he might pounce at any moment. Reflexively she inched closer to Beau.

  “You know Freddie Carter?”

  The question widened the bartender’s eyes. He studied Beau a long moment. “I’ve already told the cops everything I know.”

  Beau stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

  “Aren’t you following up on the case?”

  “So, there’s a case of some kind.” Beau gazed at Deedra as if to say, “It figures. Freddie is probably in jail even as we stand here.”

  Her stomach pinched at the thought of Freddie getting caught and facing serious jail time. She asked, “What did Freddie do?”

  “What did he…?” Wolf gave a sarcastic laugh and glanced at the women seated in the booth. “It wasn’t what he did, it’s what was done to him.”

  “It was awful,” the brunette said, making a disgusted face.

  “I got sick,” added her blond companion. “Threw up all over my best shoes.”

  “What?” Deedra’s pulse skipped, alarm speeding through her veins. “What happened to him?”

  Wolf turned a steely gaze on her. “Hit and run. Right out front.”

  “I saw the whole thing,” the brunette said. “We were just standing out there talking when that big dark van came roaring straight at us. Freddie pushed me aside, but couldn’t get out of the way quick enough. He saved my life. Took the hit for me.”

  “Oh, there was blood everywhere.” The blonde moaned, slapping her hand over h
er mouth.

  “I knew that van. Told the cops it belonged to one of my regulars. ’Course later we found out it was stolen.”

  Deedra thought of the reddish-brown stain on the road out front and felt sick, frantic. “Where did they take him? Which hospital?”

  “No hospital,” the blonde answered.

  “Where?” Beau demanded, gripping Deedra by both arms, keeping her upright.

  “The morgue,” Wolf said. “He was road kill. Flattened like a garbage rat.”

  “No!” Deedra screamed as the walls seemed to rush at her, the room starting to shrink, to fill with a thick black fog. Oh, God, she was going to faint for the second time in one day. No. She fought the sensation as she felt Beau’s arms enfold her.

  He moved her to a table and pressed her into a chair. He barked at the bartender, “Get some brandy! Quick!”

  Wolf was back with it in seconds.

  “Sip it slow,” Beau advised, tipping the shot glass toward her mouth.

  Deedra sipped. The liquor burned down her throat, seared through her blood and awakened her numbed nerves. No wonder Nell’s house looked like life interrupted. No wonder all the drapes were drawn against the outside world. Freddie was dead. Murdered. She couldn’t process it. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not here. She took another few sips, then gestured Beau closer. He bent over and leaned toward her. She murmured, “Take me out of here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She met his gaze, but could only nod.

  “Think you can stand?”

  She nodded again.

  “And walk?”

  She blew out a frustrated breath. Why did he always have to question everything? She struggled to stand. “I’m okay.”

  He helped her to her feet. She swayed slightly. No. She was not going to fall apart. Not going to cry here. Not going to grieve for Freddie in a room full of strangers. She dug deep into herself, gathered as much poise as she could muster and started for the door.

  All of the patrons had stopped drinking and chatting. Their gazes were glued to Beau and her as he held her to him and guided her outside. Just as the door shut, she heard the old man ask, “What got her so upset?”

  The bright sunlight blinded Deedra. She blinked hard against the glare. Hard against a sting of tears. The street was as quiet and deserted as when they’d arrived. The buzz of the neon sign made the only noise. Deedra held her gaze high, unwilling to look at the rusty stains, but she couldn’t erase the image from her mind. Not some animal’s blood. Freddie’s blood.

  Her knees wobbled, and she struggled to stay erect. Beau seemed not to notice, and as she started to sink toward the ground, she pulled him with her. A gunshot resounded from somewhere nearby. Overhead, the neon sign hissed and sparked, then went as dead as Freddie.

  The second shot found Deedra on the pavement, her blood mixing with that of her old friend’s.

  Chapter Seven

  Over the crack of the second shot, Deedra heard Beau shout, “Get down!”

  He slammed into her. Knocked her off her feet. She saw the ground rushing to meet her. She yelped and threw her hands out to buffer the impact. Skin scraped from her palms and knees. Blood sprang in the wounds. Oddly, she felt no pain, just a grinding slowness as though something had cranked the movement of time to a crawl. Her vision narrowed. Her attention snagged on the drips of her blood falling on the spot where Freddie had died, bright-red dots on the rust-colored stain.

  She expected to be ill, horrified. But a strange inner calm swept Deedra. She had the sense that this blood-letting was preordained, guided by some unseen hand, as symbolic as friends slicing fingertips and pressing the cuts together in a bonding that lasted forever. A rite. A passage. Something she needed in order to move on and let go. She felt Freddie nearby and knew she’d been brought to this very spot to say a final farewell to the person who’d been father, confessor and friend.

  Instead of grief consuming her, overwhelming her, strength of spirit and soul stole into her. She smiled through a blur of warm tears and murmured, “Goodbye, my friend. And thank you.”

  “Dee? Dee? Are you shot?” Beau cried.

  The fear in his voice chased the numbness from her, brought the pain of her torn flesh sharp, stinging. “No. Oh, God, Beau, are you hurt?”

  “No,” he said it in a way that reinforced what they both knew: the sniper meant for her to die, not him.

  Beau shifted to a crouch, one hand pressing her down, the other withdrawing his gun from its holster. “Stay here. And keep low.”

  “No, Beau, don’t!” She grabbed his sleeve. As certain as she’d been a moment ago, now she feared she could be wrong. What if the sniper wasn’t someone who wanted her out of the way for a clear path to Beau? What if it was someone willing to take him out to get to her? She’d lost Callie and Freddie. She couldn’t lose Beau, too. “Please, don’t go after the sniper.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance. None of the bar patrons had come outside to see whether or not they were dead or dying, but someone had called 911. Beau hesitated, torn between looking for the sniper and staying with her. For once she wished he’d forget he was a cop and be a husband. For once she wished he’d choose her first.

  The choice was taken from him as three police cars arrived on the scene followed by an ambulance.

  A PARAMEDIC APPLIED SALVE and bandages, easing the sting in Deedra’s palms, the ache in her knees. The provided painkiller even helped the throb in her lower back. But nothing relieved the niggling suspicion that Freddie had died because he’d helped her get away from a killer, then betrayed her whereabouts.

  She and Beau were escorted away from the crime scene and back downtown to the Butte police station. Throughout the hours of questioning that followed, a deep weariness settled over her. She thought the ordeal would never end. She’d lost complete track of time when Beau finally told her they could leave.

  She stepped out into the night with the grace and energy of a zombie. The sun had gone, taking the warmth with it. A good thing, she decided. Cold penetrated her thin, ripped cotton clothes, robbed the lethargy attacking her limbs, cleared the cobwebs from her weary brain and restored her sense of caution, of observation.

  Beau looked done in. He’d gone into The Copper Spittoon without his cane. Mr. Macho-Cop mode. Been without it all these hours, and he walked unsteadily now, the long day and his injury taking its toll.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, settling with a grimace on the driver’s seat. He kept his voice light, but she caught a hint of fatigue, an edge of tension. “How does a twelve-ounce steak with all the trimmings sound?”

  Food sounded wonderful. But a crowded restaurant? No. Deedra had been shot at, stared at and questioned until she felt as if she were the one suspected of wielding the rifle this afternoon. Her hands and knees were bandaged, her pants torn. She could not bear more strangers’ questioning stares. Better something quick and anonymous. “I’d be happy with a cheeseburger and fries.”

  “And a double-caramel milkshake?”

  She smiled, her mouth watering at the suggestion, and the tightness in her chest broke loose for the first time on this awful day. When she’d been pregnant with Callie, she’d craved double-caramel shakes from Wally’s Hamburger Shack. Beau never complained about running out for them. “I’m too hungry to wait until we get back to Buffalo Falls to eat.”

  “In that case, how about here?” He veered into a drive-through fast-food franchise and ordered. On a normal day, the fare couldn’t hold a candle to Wally’s, but tonight it tasted and smelled like Nirvana.

  They ate as he drove, a sense of déjà vu settling over Deedra, a level of comfort she hadn’t felt with Beau in a long time. She knew it couldn’t last, but for the moment she enjoyed the feeling of just being with him. Of eating without talking. She couldn’t tackle another serious subject. Not tonight. He seemed to feel the same.

  She suspected he didn’t want her to worry, but she caught his covert glances toward the rearview mirror.
Knew from the set of his shoulders that he was alert to the possibility of the sniper following them. Finally she asked, “Anyone there we need to be concerned about?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  They arrived without incident at the S bar S, rolling like sneak thieves under the high arch and along the half-mile lane. Vapor lamps topped peeler poles beside each of the outbuildings, casting a full-moon brightness over the yard. The buildings—house, garage, barn, stables and sheds—sported red paint with white trim. The house was an old-fashioned farmer’s delight with a porch running clear around it, a lofted attic, a full basement and dormer windows at all the second-story bedrooms.

  Glad that Pilar and Uncle Sean hadn’t waited up to greet her, Deedra stared at the darkened house.

  It had been home to four generations of Shanahans. Home to her. The only home in which she’d been happy. Could she be happy here again? Or was it too late? Had Beau found someone else? Were the rifts between them too many and too deep to repair? Had she come home not only to say goodbye to Callie but to Beau?

  Her heart kicked a notch faster at the thought, and she felt a sudden uncertainty about being here. Every fear inside her screamed, “Run as fast and as far as you can.” The thought brought her up cold. What had she been doing but running away? Prolonging the inevitable? Running away had cost her Freddie. Prolonging the inevitable might have cost her Beau. She had to stay and figure out what she wanted and where she wanted to be.

  She had to find the person who’d taken Callie’s life and stop him or her from killing again.

  A flash of movement darting from the shadows sent the thought fleeing. Deedra jerked back, then almost laughed with relief. Three barn dogs. A long bark rent the quiet, but recognizing Beau’s vehicle, the dogs quieted. Tails wagged.

  “At least,” Beau said wryly, “we’ll have plenty of warning if any strangers decide to pay us a visit in the night.”

  She nodded, liking the feeling of security that that knowledge offered. The dogs gave up waiting for them to get out of the car and headed back toward the shadows. Watching them go, she noticed several vehicles parked beside the detached garage, including her rental.