So, less than an hour after my aborted call to Monroe and JT’s refusal to speak with me, I was sitting in a whiskey bar just inside the good part of downtown, waiting for Clint Norsen to show. I thought it was a strange meeting place for him to pick – I reckoned he wasn’t yet twenty-one, so getting served would be trouble. Still, that was his problem. I sipped my drink – an old fashioned made the proper way, with a slice of orange and a cherry – and surveyed the rest of the clientele.
My drink was a good match for the setting. This was a traditional bar – dark wood, polished counter, low lighting – not a brightly lit tourist place. The drinkers around me, most sitting alone as they nursed their drinks, were male and by my reckoning all on the wrong side of forty. The bartender, with his slicked-back hair and neat moustache, looked like he’d been first stationed there in the fifties. He wore a short white apron over his black pants and shirt, and had a white, slightly grubby dishtowel permanently draped over his right shoulder.
He noticed me watching him and flashed a smile. I nodded back, and took a sip of my drink. The glass was almost empty now. The events of the day had made me real thirsty.
I paid no mind that I was the only woman in the place and that several of the guys were looking over their glasses at me. I kind of liked the attention. After all, there’s only so much rejection a woman can take before she starts feeling down on herself, and none of the guys looked the type to be giving a girl the wrong kind of trouble.
The jukebox in the corner was playing on free selection. It loaded a fresh CD and I recognised the opening bars of an old Billy Joel tune, the lyrics sounding like they’d been written about a bar just like the one I was in. Draining the last of my drink, I wondered how much longer it would be before Clint Norsen showed and whether I should get myself another.
As it was I didn’t need to decide. The guy a couple of stools along the bar put a ten-dollar bill on the counter and slid it towards the bartender. ‘Get the pretty lady another of whatever she’s having.’
A slightly sexist comment possibly. A come-on for sure, but nothing I couldn’t handle. And if he wanted to get me a drink, who was I to argue?
The bartender looked my way, waiting for my agreement. I nodded and turned to the chancer paying for my drink. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome, ma’am,’ he said, nodding towards my pink-suede cowboy boots. ‘Great boots.’ His accent sounded more Texan than Californian. The shiny buckle on his belt and the black cowboy boots he wore backed up that theory.
‘Yours, too.’
He smiled. Leaned a little closer along the bar towards me. ‘You from around here or passing through?’
‘Passing through.’
He nodded and raised his glass to me. ‘Here’s to a good trip.’
I raised mine in return. ‘And to you.’
The Texan slid down from his stool and for a second it looked like he was all set to come join me. That was the moment Clint Norsen made his entrance.
‘Sorry to be tardy,’ Clint said, climbing onto the vacant stool between me and the Texan, and signalling to the bartender for a beer. He looked different out of the Southside Storage coveralls; the jeans and short-sleeved shirt he was wearing made him look less gawky, more mature. I figured it was a good job, given our location.
‘You invited me here,’ I said. ‘I didn’t expect to be kept waiting.’
Clint didn’t get asked for ID. He paid for his beer and took a swig. ‘The baby took longer than usual to put down. Teething, I think. Lots of crying.’
I looked at him, surprised. ‘Baby?’
‘Joni Mae,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’m a single dad. Couldn’t leave her with the sitter until she was settled.’
I smiled. Decided to cut him some slack. ‘I understand that. I oftentimes had the same when my Dakota was little.’
He looked surprised. ‘You got a kid?’
‘Sure do, she’s nine. Why, does that shock you?’
Clint blushed, and he looked more like the gawky kid from the warehouse. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just, with your line of work, I figured having a family would be tough.’
‘Yeah, it is.’
‘Worth it though, right?’
‘Sure is. Every moment.’ Right then I felt the one-two punch of both missing my daughter and feeling guilt at having left her. I looked away and took another sip of my drink. Be professional. Focus on the job, I told myself. Dakota was just fine. I looked back to Clint. ‘But you didn’t ask to meet just to discuss kids. What have you got for me?’
He glanced around the bar, then leaned closer, keeping his voice low. ‘I found out those details you’re after.’
I nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘The thing is, the package had been stored with us longer than any of the other items in our safe. It arrived before we went fully digital so I had to dig through the archives to find the sender’s information.’
‘How long ago was it sent?’
‘Almost two and a half years ago – March 7th.’
Monroe had told me the chess pieces used in the Vegas game between the two legends disappeared ten days before Fletcher was arrested for the thefts from the Sunsearcher. That was the bond he’d skipped on – the one that had put me on his trail almost two and a half years before. The dates matched. The smart money said the chess pieces had been in the package held at Southside Suppliers all this time. Monroe would spit feathers when I told him.
‘So how’d it get to Southside?’
‘It was sent from Florida via courier. Not our usual service, but an independent company. I managed to get a copy of the documentation, though. Whoever checked the package in did a thorough job.’
‘Did it give a description of the contents?’
Clint shook his head. ‘Nothing specific; just said “board game”.’
Specific enough. ‘Who sent it?’
‘Well, that’s the thing. Most things seemed in order, but when I looked at the sender and collector details there was something that didn’t add up.’
The bartender hovered close by, wanting us to order more drinks, no doubt. I shook my head. Waited until he’d moved away to the other end of the bar before asking, ‘In what way?’
‘Well, on the documentation it says that the guy who picked the package up and the sender were both called Fletcher.’
‘I’m sensing a but?’
‘See for yourself.’ Clint pulled out his cell. Flicked through his photos and showed me two signatures.
‘They don’t match. No way near.’
He nodded. ‘Exactly.’
Taking the cell from him I enlarged the picture. The most recent signature – given when the package was collected a little under a week before – clearly said Gibson Fletcher. I recognised the big, loopy flourishes of the G and the F from when I’d taken him in. Back then I’d thought it looked more like he was giving an autograph than getting signed into jail.
But the first signature – the one given to enter the package into storage – was totally different. Small letters, tight loops, barely legible. I enlarged it again. Peered closer. Inhaled sharply as I read the name. ‘Well, shit. And he said they’d been estranged for years.’
‘You know who it is?’ Clint asked.
I nodded. Re-read the name, just to be sure.
Gibson Fletcher’s brother – Donald.
23
Donald Fletcher was on my mind as I drove back to the hotel. It was real late, but I needed to find out what was going on between Gibson and his brother. Despite what Monroe had said, there was only one person I trusted enough to help me. I switched my cell to speaker and dialled Red’s number. It rang three times before he picked up.
‘You’re working late today, Miss Lori.’
‘Guess I am. Hope you weren’t sleeping?’
‘Dozing is all. I tend to sleep light. What’s on your mind?’
‘I met up with that local bounty hunter – Dez McGregor. He made it clear he was in
charge and they didn’t need me. So I’ve been following up some leads of my own. I met with the guy from Southside Storage and there’s something odd in their records. Makes me think Donald Fletcher could be involved.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Yeah. Look, can you add another thing to that to-do list of yours?’
‘You know I’m an old man, right?’
I laughed. ‘You’re not old.’
‘It’s nice that you think that.’
‘Can you find out what contact Donald Fletcher had with his brother? He said they weren’t on speaking terms, but now I’m thinking that’s not true.’
‘Sure, I’ll get on that. I might have something else on Fletcher, too, but I need to do more checks before I’m certain.’
‘Like?’
Red waited a beat before he spoke. ‘It’s to do with that initial arrest – the vacation thefts. I took a look at the file and—’
‘How did you do that?’
He chuckled. ‘A good investigator never reveals his secrets.’
‘But?’
‘Let’s just say I still have friends who are polis. I’m meeting one tomorrow. I’m hoping she’ll be able to fill in a few blanks.’
I wondered if this female cop was the woman I’d heard in the background when I’d spoken with Red a couple of nights previously. ‘Okay. Keep me posted.’
‘I’ll update you in the morning. Goodnight, Miss Lori.’
I ended the call as I pulled into the hotel parking lot. It was fuller than I’d seen it before, lines of vehicles filling the slots. I drove between the rows. Eventually I found a slot; but had no choice but to park the Jeep in the far corner, further from the building than was my preference. It was late, and I figured there must be some kind of function being held for the place to be so busy. Locking up the Jeep, I set off across the lot to the hotel. The only sound aside from the noise of the nearby highway was my footsteps on the asphalt as I weaved through the lines of cars.
It was real dark. There was no lighting at this end of the lot and the moon was hidden behind cloud, but I knew my way well enough; the spots around the building guiding me to the hotel like a homing beacon. As I walked, I was thinking on Donald and Gibson. On why the package had been stored at Southside Storage for over two years, and on why Donald hadn’t mentioned it to me when I’d questioned him about Gibson’s motive for stopping in San Diego.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t see it coming.
*
I felt him first. Felt his hand around my mouth, another around my waist clamping my arms tight against my sides, yanking me backwards, unbalancing me. He smelled of chilli corn chips. His calloused fingers were rough across my cheek.
He outmatched me in both height and weight. The angle of his arms indicated he was at least a foot taller; the width of them showed he was a hell of a lot stronger. I had no weapon with me – my Taser was in my hotel room – so my only defence would be my fists. I fought the natural instinct to pull against him, knowing his size and momentum would give him the advantage. Instead I pushed back hard – the opposite of what he’d expect. Then, using this moment of surprise, pulled forward and twisted left – aiming to get free and to face him, see him.
He was far stronger than I’d anticipated though. Smart too. He didn’t fall for my trick. Blocked me from turning. Didn’t let go. Kept pulling me backwards, my heels dragging against the tarmac as I tried to root myself, thrashing beneath his hold. He weaved between the vehicles. There were three lines of cars between us and the hotel door. I could see the light behind the glass entrance door to the lobby; blurred shapes of people moving inside. I tried to yell, but his hand muffled the sound.
‘Shush,’ he hissed. There was alcohol on his breath. ‘Don’t go causing a fuss.’
I fought beneath his grasp, but with my arms pinned I had no leverage. So I went limp, then tried to jerk my right elbow into his ribs. He shifted left, blocked me, so the impact wasn’t as great. Cursing, he slammed me against a black SUV, trapping me tight with his body weight.
I squealed. Bucked against him and kicked back hard. Felt my foot connect with his leg, and heard him wince. But it wasn’t enough. I’d missed his knee. Caused pain but not enough damage.
‘I said no fuss,’ he growled, pressing himself harder against me. ‘Hold still.’
Never. To hold still was to give in, admit defeat. I would not be taken down easy. I thought of my baby girl; of her sweet face, her big blue eyes looking up at me as I left her at camp, and of my promise I’d be back soon to collect her. Felt love and fear and the need to see her again ricochet through me. No fuss my ass! I’d be damned if I’d ever surrender.
I lurched to the left, faking another an escape attempt. As my attacker moved with me, I raised my leg forward, pressing my knee against the side of the SUV and, using it as leverage, thrust myself backwards. I threw my head back and felt my skull connect hard against his chin. Heard him grunt. And, in his moment of recoil, I twisted hard to the right.
He didn’t release me, but the sudden movement caused his hand around my mouth to slip. I bit down on his fingers, hard as I could. Tasted blood mixed with chilli corn chips. Felt the flesh tearing between my teeth.
He howled in pain. Flung me against the SUV. My head slammed into the window. Glass shattered. The vehicle’s alarm started wailing. I hit the ground hard.
Vomit rose in my throat. My head throbbed. My vision went hazy.
Blinking, I tried to focus. Had to escape. Reached up for the door handle, tried to pull myself up but my legs were like Jello. I couldn’t stand. My balance was shot. The car alarm pierced into my brain with every shriek. I swallowed hard, trying not to vomit. Through the haziness I saw the dark shape of the man towering over me. I tried again to scramble to my feet. Failed.
The car alarm stopped. In the silence I looked between the cars towards the entrance of the hotel, the light. No one was coming. No one would help.
He crouched beside me. I turned, trying to crawl free, but he grabbed my wrist with his good hand and wrenched me back towards him. Grabbed my arms and pinned them to my sides again. Put his leg across mine, stopping me from kicking.
I spat in his face. Still fighting.
He shook me hard. I felt a stabbing pain in my head. Tasted bile on my tongue. My vision was blurred, useless. My eyes tried to shut. I fought to keep them open, blinking, trying to focus on the man in front of me: dark hair, real muscular, tall.
He pressed his lips against my ear. His voice just audible as he said, ‘Leave this alone, Lori. Go back to Florida. And tell Monroe to leave me be. He owes me that.’
*
Back in my room, I stood in the bathroom and stared into the mirror. My lips were stained with blood, my chin, too. My mascara had run, painting dark circles around my eyes. A bruise was blooming down one side of my face. I looked like a vampire who had lost a fight.
But I’d won, hadn’t I?
In truth I wasn’t sure. But I was alive, and my injuries were superficial, so that counted for something. Turning on the faucet, I wetted one of the white washcloths and scrubbed my face clean. As I rinsed it out, I watched as the water changed from clear to red to pink and back to clear – the evidence of the attack, washed down the drain. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t like I would be going to the cops, anyways.
A sharp stab at my temples made me gasp. It felt like someone was drilling into my brain. I grabbed the sides of the basin, gritting my teeth as the pain vibrated through me. As it began to reduce I glanced down and saw the toe of my left boot was scuffed, the pink suede torn into a jagged flap. The knees of my jeans were bloodied and ripped. There was a bloody smear across my left forearm – not my blood. I rubbed it with the washcloth. Winced from the pressure. When the blood was gone I saw dark bruises, hand-shaped, had formed beneath.
The drilling in my head started again and I thought I might vomit. Shutting off the faucet, I staggered back to the bed and slumped down onto it, waiting for the pain t
o stop. I knew this was the aftershock of reverse head-butting my attacker. It would pass in time, I was pretty certain of that, wouldn’t be nothing permanent.
Leaning forward, I rested my head in my hands. I’d been tailed in Florida and followed in the garage at San Diego airport a few days before, but since then nothing. Tonight had been different. My attacker had me pinned; I was beat. He could have done whatever he’d wanted, and although I’d have fought, I’d have lost. But he hadn’t taken advantage; instead he’d backed off. Why?
I’d been real groggy, but I’d heard his words clear enough. I replayed them in my mind: Leave this alone, Lori. Go back to Florida. Tell Monroe to leave me be. He owes me that.
My vision might have been too blurred to see his face, but I knew that voice. Recognised it from two years and a half years previously: Gibson Fletcher.
He’d taken one hell of a risk, revealing himself to warn me off. But it hadn’t just been about me. He’d been warning Monroe off, too.
I tried to think on what that meant. Tried to force my aching head to concentrate through the pain. This was important. Gibson had sought me out for a reason. He could have gone direct to Monroe. He could have just run.
Why hadn’t he?
I’d told Mia Searle I was working for the FBI, sure, but I’d never mentioned Monroe to her. Fletcher must have worked out that Monroe was involved. And from the way he spoke it sounded like they knew each other. I didn’t understand how, and I didn’t understand why Fletcher thought Monroe owed him; but from the anger in his voice my guess was there was a whole load of history between them.
I massaged my temples. Surely it wasn’t Gibson behind the men tailing me in Florida, though? I hadn’t met Mia until I’d come to San Diego. For him to have been watching me in Florida he’d have to have learned about my deal with Monroe right from the get-go. But how? It didn’t make any kind of sense. I kept massaging my temples. Tried to stay logical and focus on the facts I did know. Top of the list – Gibson wasn’t in Mexico. Mia had been in recent contact with him. Gibson had connected me to Monroe.
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