Allie ignored that last bit of unwanted commentary and clicked the mouse to let the footage play again. She watched as Pete the bartender casually turned away from Allie’s coaster to talk to Stan, who had just picked his head up from the counter in response to something.
Pete.
It was Pete the entire time. The same Pete that had helpfully filled her in on the Marshalls when she told him about the note that he conveniently didn’t know anything about. Stan had also shared information, but was that just because he happened to be there? If Stan wasn’t there, would Pete have filled in the same role? The man had been helpful, and in many ways even convinced her that following up on the note was the right thing to do.
You lying sack of shit.
And yet, Sarah had confessed to having left the note. Why would she lie about that?
Easy: She was a part of this. She was likely working with Pete. The way she had smiled at him when she paid the bill earlier…
Who else was working with them? Was Dawson? The detective had access to the same footage Allie was looking at right now, and yet he hadn’t included anything from two nights ago into his report. Maybe she should pay Detective Dawson a visit, too.
Who else was involved? Right now, it could be anyone—and everyone. All she knew was that she couldn’t trust a single soul in Timber Creek County. Not even Marshall. For all she knew, the man had his own agenda that didn’t involve her finding his son’s killer. He hadn’t looked all that broken up about it when they talked last night. Then again, maybe Archibald Marshall was just a naturally stone-faced sonofabitch.
Allie sat back in Walt’s squeaky chair and stared at the freeze frame of Pete—handsome, square-jawed Pete—as he smiled at a miserable-looking Stan.
She finally looked up at Mickey. “You know where he lives?”
“Who?” Mickey asked.
The asshole who got this ball rolling, Allie thought, but she said, “Pete Williams. I need to talk to him about something.”
Twenty-Three
She had an address for Pete Williams (if that was even his real name; at this point, Allie wasn’t so sure there was anything real about the man), but she couldn’t just go there yet. There was the matter of Mickey, who knew what Allie had been doing since this morning and would probably blab to the cops at the first opportunity. Of course, Allie couldn’t just kill the bartender—even if she had a shotgun that wasn’t loaded with blanks—and there wasn’t any scenario she could come up with that would justify such a cold-blooded act.
So how to deal with a witness who probably knew more than she needed to and would definitely tell the police where Allie would be headed next?
Allie stood up and picked up the shotgun. “Let’s go.”
Mickey didn’t move from the sofa. “Go where?”
“Pete’s.”
“But you already have his address.”
Pete’s employment information was in one of the desk drawers. Despite being a cheapskate, Walt kept very good records. If Pete was even still there. Allie had a very strong feeling he hadn’t been home since all of this began. Though, if that were the case, the man was keeping a very good front because according to Mickey, Pete had showed up for his shift last night.
“I need a car,” Allie said. “Your Jeep outside should do.”
Mickey stood up and quickly produced the keys from her pocket. She held it out to Allie. “Here. Take it.”
“You’re coming with me.”
“But why?”
“Because it’s either that or shoot you.”
“Oh,” Mickey said.
Allie turned off the PC before walking out from behind the desk. “And I’d prefer not to do that. You did give me free coffee yesterday.”
Mickey frowned. “It was really bad coffee.”
“Yeah, well, it was still free. And I’d really, really prefer not to shoot you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Now that we’re in agreement, let’s go.”
The bartender sighed and lowered her hand. “Just to Pete’s place, right? And then that’s it?”
Probably not, Allie thought, and the other woman likely already knew that, even when Allie said, “Yeah, sure. Get me to Pete’s, then you’ll be off the hook.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
“For real, real?”
Allie smiled. For a second there, Mickey—a woman in her late thirties—sounded a lot like Lucy, who had yet to escape her teenage years.
“Yeah,” Allie said. “For real, real, real.”
Mickey drove Allie in the Jeep to the north part of town, which according to the bartender was not where you resided if you could help it. Although her chauffeur wouldn’t come right out and say it, Allie understood that to mean north Wells City was where you lived if you didn’t have a lot of money. The poor section. Not that its existence surprised her. It didn’t matter how small or big a city was, there were always separations between the rich and poor and everyone in-between. The only differences were how obvious the locals wanted to make it look.
That divide was very obvious in Wells City.
They drove past battered old homesteads and broken-down cars along the shoulders of a two-lane road. There was rusty farm equipment out in the open, as unloved as the empty fields that surrounded them. There were multiple trailer parks, each one seemingly more distressing in appearance than the previous.
Allie only spotted two police cars during the entire ten-mile drive from the Don’t Stop In until they finally reached north Wells City, and both were parked at drive-in restaurants. That was further confirmation her “rescue” was still undiscovered; or if it was known, then the WCPD was doing a very good job of keeping it from everyone, including their own patrolmen.
The more she thought about it, the more impressed Allie was of Archibald Marshall’s influence over the area. The man really did wield a lot of power.
So let’s try not to cross him unless you absolutely have to.
As if on cue, the burner phone that Windbreaker, one of Marshall’s bodyguards, had given her last night buzzed inside her jacket pocket. Mickey glanced over but didn’t say a word as Allie pulled it out.
The caller ID on the gray LCD screen of the flip phone read: UNKNOWN CALLER.
Allie opened the phone and answered it. “Yes?”
“Mr. Marshall would like an update,” a male voice said on the other end. Frank, Marshall’s other bodyguard.
“I didn’t know I was supposed to be giving updates.”
“It was implied.”
“You should have come right out and said it.”
“Does this mean you don’t have an update for us?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Working on what?”
“Something that might lead to something.”
Frank chuckled. “That’s it?”
“I can write it down and send a letter, if you want.”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll pass the word to Mr. Marshall. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
“You do that.”
“And just so you know, you only have one day before the fit hits the shan. Mr. Marshall won’t be able to hide the fact that you’re not currently in jail forever. You have twenty-four hours before roadblocks start going up on every road in and out of town and every police car in the county is looking for you again.”
“Wanna tell me how he managed that?”
“He’s Archibald Marshall,” Frank said, as if that should say everything.
And Allie guessed it did. Pete the bartender had probably lied to her about a lot of things, but he hadn’t about the Marshall family’s influence. Marshall had easily arranged her escape and was now, somehow, guaranteeing her a full day to work.
Yeah, definitely don’t want to cross him unless I absolutely have to.
She said into the phone, “Tell him I’m working on a lead.”
“You’ll want to keep us informed,” Frank said.
“It’s a suggestion. In case you might need further assistance.”
“You?”
“You have any other friends in town?”
“I didn’t know we were friends now.”
“Of course we are. After all, it’s in our best interest to be friends with Allie Krycek.”
“How the hell did you find out?”
Frank chuckled again. “I suspect you paid a lot of money to disappear.”
“Not enough, apparently.”
“Let’s just say this: As much money as you paid for your clean slate, Mr. Marshall has more to uncover it.”
“He knows more than he’s telling me, doesn’t he?”
“That’s probably a safe guess.”
“You know, this would be much easier if he’d tell me everything he knows.”
“Yes, it would be, but what would be the fun in that?” Then, before she could say anything in return, “Good luck, Allie Krycek. You’ll need it.”
The connection went dead.
Allie put the phone away. She decided that she really, really didn’t like the sound of Frank’s voice. Just imagining his face made her want to punch the empty air.
“Who was that?” Mickey asked. Amazingly, the bartender had kept quiet throughout Allie’s phone conversation.
“No one,” Allie said.
“That sure was an energetic conversation for no one.”
“Are we almost at Pete’s?”
“Almost.” Then, glancing over at her, “So, uh, where did you learn kung fu?”
“Kung fu?”
“What you did to Bill before. That was kung fu, right?” Then, before Allie could correct her, the bartender added, “Can anyone learn it? Can you teach me?”
Pete Williams lived in a trailer park that only differed from the dozen others they’d already driven past by its dilapidated state. This one looked like it was on its last legs, and maybe that was why it was so hidden from the main road and more “north” than the rest of north Wells City. If you didn’t want to be found, Allie thought this would be a pretty good option.
There was no gate, just a rough pebble road that connected what was essentially a large parking lot from a side road that, if not for Mickey’s knowledge of the area, they might have driven right past. Allie didn’t ask the bartender why she was so familiar with their surroundings. She didn’t really have to.
They drove through a row of single and double-wide mobile homes, every one of them looking as if they had surpassed their expiration date a while back. Most of them were either permanently connected to the ground or were kept erected with blocks of cement or roughly put-together concrete foundations. Only a few curious eyes peeked out from behind dirt-smeared windows as Mickey’s Jeep made its way up the path. For the most part, the park was quiet. Most of the people were either at work or didn’t feel like coming out to take an up close and personal look at them.
Allie had Pete’s address on a strip of paper, and she focused on the number now. There, up ahead. A single-wide mobile home. There were no cars parked outside and no signs of Pete. Allie didn’t think she was going to find the lying bartender inside, but maybe she’d stumble across something that she could use. If not his current whereabouts, then where Pete had been or been up to.
Mickey was unsure if Pete would come in for his shift later in the day, but he also hadn’t called in sick. Allie didn’t think he would, not after everything that had transpired yesterday. If Pete was involved in this—and the unblinking and objective videotape footage she’d seen proved that he was—he would have no reason to stick around a full day after she had been arrested. The fact that he had come into work at all last night was a mystery. One of many that she added to her pile.
Mickey turned her Jeep off the rough pebble road and parked in front of Pete’s. She put the gear into park and looked over. “Now what?”
“Come with me,” Allie said.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You don’t have any choice.”
Mickey frowned, then looked down at the shotgun on the floor resting between Allie’s right leg and the front passenger side door. “Are there actually live shells in there?”
Allie smiled at her. “I thought we went over this. You don’t want to find out, and I’d prefer not to prove it.”
The bartender sighed. “This day just keeps getting lousier,” she said before opening her car door and climbing outside.
Allie did likewise, but not before slipping the shotgun into the shopping bag she’d been carrying around since last night. Only three-fourths of the weapon fit, with the buttstock sticking out. But unless you got close and knew your way around guns, it was probably not readily obvious that it was a shotgun in there.
“Relax,” Allie said. “It’ll be all over soon, and you can go back to your life.”
Mickey looked over the hood of the Jeep at her. “You mean that?”
“Yes,” Allie said, with as much sincerity as she could muster, and it was a lot, because she meant it.
The bartender must have believed her, because she nodded and there was obvious relief on her face. “Okay.”
“The keys.”
Mickey tossed them over.
Allie caught, then pocketed them. “Stay close.”
Mickey did, following behind Allie as she went up the rickety wooden stairs to Pete’s front door. There was an exterior mesh gate, but it was unlocked. She pulled it open, listening to the rusted metal squeak just a bit too loud for her liking. The door on the other side also opened without resistance when she tried it.
You should lock your doors, Pete, Allie thought as she gave the door a mild push before going through it.
It was empty.
Well, not exactly empty. There were clothes on the floor and draped over sofas, and there were definite signs that Pete had been living here as recently as last night. The place looked, felt, and smelled very much lived in, even if its owner was currently missing.
Allie walked farther inside, Mickey following (not exactly close, but close enough that Allie could hear and feel her breath) behind her.
“What a slob,” Mickey said before she jumped when the wind pushed the door closed behind her.
“Relax,” Allie said.
“Yeah right, relax.”
Like most single-wide trailers, Pete’s home looked more like an RV, albeit wider and longer. There was a kitchen to the right side and the front door opened up into a living room. The bedrooms—two of them—were in the back on the left. Morning sunlight from the front windows spilled over the stained carpeting and discolored walls, and the floor squeaked as she walked across them.
Allie put the shopping bag down on a yellow sofa and took out the shotgun before glancing back at Mickey. “Don’t go anywhere. This will be over soon.”
“Okay,” Mickey said.
“Remember, I have your car keys.”
Mickey sighed, then walked over to a chair next to the kitchen and sat down. “Take your time.”
For some reason, Allie believed that the bartender wouldn’t run off. Or, at least, she hoped she didn’t, because Allie was going to really, really hate to have to chase after her.
Allie walked the rest of the way to the first bedroom and pushed the door open using the shotgun instead of her hand. It might have been a second bedroom once, but Pete had been using it as storage. There were old boxes of clothes scattered on the floor, along with exercise equipment. A push-up device of some kind and barbells occupied a corner. That explained Pete’s athletic build, for a bartender.
Allie let the door close and moved on to the next one. She guessed this was the main bedroom, and was proven correct when she opened it to find a big queen-size bed in the middle and what looked like reasonably clean living conditions for a single guy. Unless Pete didn’t live here by himself, though nothing she’d seen so far pointed to that. Of course just
because Pete didn’t have a permanent live-in girlfriend didn’t mean he didn’t have one that dropped by every now and then.
She glanced back at Mickey. The bartender was staring off at an old painting that had been hung crookedly on a wall. If she was still scared of Allie, it didn’t show on her face. She looked more bored than anything at the moment.
Bored’s good. Better than terrified and on the verge of running off.
Allie stepped into the bedroom and flicked on the light switch. She gave the interior a quick glance before heading to the closet. Clothes hung inside, most of them men’s pants and shirts, but Allie quickly spotted something that confirmed Pete wasn’t a complete bachelor: A woman’s small size pink camisole. When Allie sifted through the hangers, she found more women’s clothing.
Who’s your friend, Pete?
Allie closed the closet and looked for, and found, the dresser next to the bed. More clothes—both men’s and women’s—but nothing that could help her find Pete or clues to his female friend’s identity.
There was a nightstand, and Allie pulled it open. A Gideon Bible, of all things, was underneath a pile of letters. Allie picked up a couple of the envelopes and flipped through them. Business mail from a utility company, a phone service, and one from a local bank. She opened the one from the bank and scanned it.
The contents were addressed to Peter Williams and was warning him of late payment on a car loan. Allie didn’t have to guess what the other letters were. Ol’ Pete hadn’t been paying his bills.
Was that enough for him to get involved with a scheme to set her up? Was this all about money? Why not? She’d known a lot of people who did some very stupid things for money. Sometimes for a very small sum. Money made the world go ’round, just like how money got her out of jail last night; and now, a twenty-four-hour reprieve.
The only other reason for Pete to do anything was love. Allie had seen a lot of people do some very stupid things for that, too.
She was still flipping through the envelopes from Pete’s nightstand when a door banged outside.
The front door!
Allie Krycek (Book 4): Savior/Corruptor Page 19
