She allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, a sharp contrast from the bright sunshine, then scanned the place. She instinctively counted the bleary-eyed men sidled up to the sticky bar. Two slow-moving couples rubbed against one another on the dance floor, their feet scuffing the oak planks rubbed smooth and chalky gray by a thousand couples before them.
Patrons sat at every wobbly table in the room. Loud, twangy music emerged from the ancient jukebox. The yeasty scent of newly tapped beer was overpowered by the stench of unwashed bodies and puke from the Friday-night crowd who’d left here a little more than twelve hours ago.
She’d sooner spend a day in lockup than in this place.
Stacey’s pulse skipped as she spotted her brother. Tim was playing darts with Randy Covey in the far corner. A half-full pitcher of beer, and an empty one, sat on the closest table, and they each had mugs in their free hands. Neither had noticed her arrival.
That was fine. She’d make her presence known to them in very short order. She had a few things to say to Randy for backing up Tim’s idiocy and drinking hard with him on a Saturday afternoon. He oughta be home with his kid playing ball or at least shielding Seth from his wicked witch of a grandmother.
“Back exit,” Dean murmured.
Stacey glanced in that direction. A heavyset, bearded biker type watched them closely, edging step by step toward the door. She’d wager there was a warrant out on him somewhere. “This is your lucky day, pal,” she whispered.
Finding Dick behind the bar, she stepped over and rapped her knuckles on the worn surface. She knew damn well the man had looked up and seen her enter, but he’d made a show of continuing to draw beer and pour shots, ignoring her presence.
“Oh, hey, there, Sheriff. Surprised to see you here in the middle of the day. Stop in for a cold one?”
Shaking her head, Stacey saw the way his hand shook and knew he was nervous. The sixtyish, skinny, balding little man knew how thoroughly Stacey disliked the place. She could never hide her disdain when she came in. Just because she’d never caught him doing anything illegal didn’t mean she believed he wasn’t. “You know better than that.”
The bar quieted as others noticed her arrival. Her appearance—uniform and hat, stiff form, jutting jaw, the dark glasses—screamed rigid law enforcement, and since most of the clientele were ex-cons, drunks, or druggies, everyone went a little on edge. That was one reason she always unsnapped her holster when she entered the place, though she’d never actually had to pull her weapon from it.
The club, yes. She’d broken up a few fights with it. One had involved one of her own deputies, who’d been attacked by a huge, drunk redneck whose thick skull hadn’t even registered the first blow.
“This is Special Agent Dean Taggert,” she said. “We’re here to talk to you about the night Lisa Zimmerman disappeared.”
Dick made a great show of sympathy. “I heard the rumors. Is it true? She’s dead?”
“We need a list of everyone in the bar that night.”
“That was a long time ago, Sheriff. I can’t be remembering everybody in my place.” He glanced around nervously, as if worried his customers, who valued discretion, would realize he was a rat who’d turn anybody in to save his own narrow ass.
Stacey pulled a small notebook out of her back pocket, reading off the notes she’d jotted when she’d originally investigated. “You said there were no strangers, only regulars. About thirty of them, and you named several.” She scanned the list, as she had a number of times in the past few days. Her eyes zoned in on a few names, men she know drove American-made pickups. Warren Lee being one of them. “All I’m looking for is anyone else you remember. And any details that made that night stand out.”
Her voice was loud enough to be heard by those close by, and Dick’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. His gaze darted around the room, then lit upon the dartboard in the corner. “Why don’t you go ask your brother and his good friend Covey over there?”
Her jaw clenched. “What?”
“They were both here. Or didn’t you write that part down in your little book?” The man laughed, though his amusement was overshadowed by pure malice. “Matter of fact, I seem to recall Lisa bein’ a mite short with Tim.” Leaning forward in a pretense that he intended to whisper, but doing no such thing, he added, “I think he got his feelings hurt that she didn’t like his scars and wouldn’t dance with him.”
Her eyes instinctively shifted. Tim, across the room, had just sent a steel-tipped dart toward the board. It landed in the center ring. Bull’s-eye. But he didn’t react by so much as a laugh or a high five with Randy.
Because he was listening. The tension in his ramrod-straight back made that clear.
Angry and protective of her brother, despite being here in an official capacity, she sneered at Dick. “Oh, don’t you worry; I’ll be tracking down a whole bunch of your regulars and talking to them. After I do a little background checking on them, of course.”
The man visibly paled, realizing his jab had done nothing more than dig him in deeper. He wiped his hands with a dirty cloth and mumbled, “Honestly, Sheriff, I don’t remember that far back. I can make some guesses, though.”
Dean, who’d been silently watching the exchange, covering her back, interjected: “What about credit card receipts from that night?”
The tavern owner snorted. “I don’t think a soul in this place could get one.”
“But you can still check,” the special agent insisted, his voice low and steady, the very confidence of it enough to scare the hell out of any man who had something to hide.
Or to arouse the feminine instincts of any woman with a hint of estrogen.
“All right,” the man muttered. “Not that it’ll do any good.”
“Thanks for your cooperation,” Stacey said, knowing she sounded steely and anything but grateful.
“Not a problem. Surprised you don’t already know who was here that night. Didn’t you have deputies watching the place around then?” Dick attempted a weak smile. “I know you were trying to sting me, sending underage kids in here, but I don’t serve nobody without ID.”
Stacey frowned. Though the idea wasn’t half-bad, she wasn’t naive enough to think Dick would fall for it; he was far too crafty for that. Besides, he knew the names and ages of just about every teenager in the county. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, last spring, a couple times kids came in here thinkin’ they were gonna be able to score beer.” He scratched his grizzled chin. “Now that I think about it, there was a ruckus the night the Zimmerman girl went missing. Had to have that Flanagan kid hauled outta here.”
Flanagan. Mike Flanagan. Why was she not surprised?
But even as she discounted the idea that teens trying to buy beer might have anything to do with Lisa’s murder, she realized she needed to talk to Mike. Because if he’d been tossed out, he might very well have lurked around outside. Kids like that wanted to get even. She wouldn’t put it past him to flatten a tire, break a window, do something to throw a young man’s fit at not getting what he wanted. If he’d been hanging around, maybe he’d seen something.
“Only other thing I recall is that Lisa’s stepdaddy called here lookin’ for her around midnight, mad as hell about his missing car.”
That was something she hadn’t known. “Stan Freed? Did you tell him she was here?”
The man’s scrawny chest puffed out and his voice increased in volume. “Nah. I don’t go tellin’ tales. Didn’t let on she was here.”
Had Stan gone out looking for her, by chance?
“Oh,” Dick added, as if suddenly remembering something. “And Warren was on a rant about the gov’m’nt conspiring to keep gas prices up, part of their ‘master plan’ for the rich to take over the country.”
More unsurprise. Her list of interviewees was getting longer by the minute.
That should have been a good thing. More leads meant more chances to solve this case and stop the brutal crimes.
If only one name hadn’t been on the list. Because questioning her own belligerent brother was going to be anything but pleasant. And frankly, it would be worse if she tried to talk to him here. He would swagger and puff up, not wanting anyone in the place to think he was at all intimidated by his cop sister.
She’d talk to Tim herself, but she might ask Dean or his fellow agents to deal with Randy. The man made her teeth hurt. He seemed to bring out the worst in her brother in terms of recklessness and overblown testosterone. They had done some stupid stuff as teens, Randy even getting arrested for theft before he had gotten his girlfriend pregnant and Tim had left for the military.
What a nice contrast to be with a man like Dean, who oozed masculinity, yet had no problem with the fact that Stacey had been the bold one in the car. He had to have self-confidence by the boatload to go with that intelligence and strength. It was an incredibly intoxicating combination.
A lack of self-confidence was one trait her brother shared with his best friend. Tim because of his injuries and scars. Randy because, well, probably because of his whole disappointing life.
“Want to split up?” Dean asked. “Work our way through the room faster?”
Stacey shook her head. “I don’t think so. I know these guys. Some of them will do better with you—I’ll let you know which—but some won’t give you the time of day.” Not that they’d do much more for her. But at least she knew their weaknesses.
Spying a couple of the men Dick had named during her original investigation, a pair of roughnecks who lived downstate but came here to do their drinking and raise their hell, she strode to their table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”
They both eyed her sullenly. The smaller of the two, a weasely sidekick by the name of Lester, tried to act tough. If his big buddy weren’t sitting beside him, he would already be spilling his guts. “You looking for some company, pretty lady? You need a couple of men to remind you what you got between your legs—and what you ain’t?”
Feeling an almost tangible burst of heated fury from Dean, who stood beside her chair, Stacey shook her head once. Eyes narrowed, she dropped her elbows onto the table and stared, hard, into Lester’s bloodshot eyes. “You don’t want to compare balls with me, boy. Remember, I busted your naked ass for public indecency last year. So I know how small the chances are that you’ve got anything I’d be interested in.”
His companion, a big, hard-looking dude who rode one of the choppers outside, snorted at the put-down. “You better shut up while you can,” he told his friend. Lifting his mug of beer to his lips, he drained it. Streams of amber liquid and foam slid down either side of his mouth to soak his thickly bearded chin. When the mug was empty, he slammed it down, the table shaking beneath the force of the blow. As if both fortified and confident of the manly display he’d made of his supermacho ability to chug a beer, he nodded at Stacey. “Go ahead,” he said. “Ask whatever you want.”
“But—” Lester interrupted.
“If you ain’t smart enough to remember what she can do with that club on her hip, I am.” The man rubbed his head, obviously remembering when Stacey had stopped him from breaking any more furniture right here in this room during a bender last fall. The big man’s fierce frown faded. “Besides, I know what you want to hear about. That little Zimmerman girl was messed up, but she was a sweet young thing once upon a time. And if somebody really murdered her, chopped her up, and fed her to some wild pigs, I hope you fry the bastard.”
Hearing Dean’s disgusted sigh, she contemplated correcting the crazy story. But it was already too late. The rumor mill was hard at work, and no matter what she said, the stories would persist, growing wilder, until Lisa’s remains were found and the cause of death made public. And even then the conspiracy theorists would continue to embellish.
“I might not be on your side most of the time,” the burly guy added, “and I might hate your guts. But I’ll help if I can. For that little gal’s sake.”
“Fair enough,” she said.
She flipped open her notebook, not entirely surprised at the man’s reaction, because even tough guys had a code. His line between right and wrong might be wider than Stacey’s, but he knew enough to recognize when it had been crossed.
Cooperation from one of the most badass regulars at the skankiest establishment in the county, that was a good start. But she knew it wouldn’t last. If she got cooperation from everyone else in the place, she’d trade in her badge for a case of Mary Kay cosmetics and her squad car for a pink Cadillac. Because things were just never that easy.
THEY WERE LOOKING for Lisa Zimmerman’s body.
When he’d first heard the FBI was in Hope Valley, he hadn’t worried. What could that possibly have to do with him? He’d done nothing close to home in ages, nothing to draw attention to himself. His fun in the Playground couldn’t lead back here to his real door. He’d been far too careful for that.
Then he’d heard about them digging near Warren Lee’s place. That was a bit troubling, but still nothing to panic about.
Eventually, like always, the gossipers got everything jumbled up. The stories about Lisa’s disappearance and a potential murder victim being sought by the FBI had gotten twisted together into one big, very plausible rumor.
Then came the confirmation: It really was Lisa they were looking for.
As he sat alone in his most secret place Saturday evening—a room to which he alone had access, concealed from any prying eyes—he had to concede a certain sense of alarm. Not fear. He never experienced fear, just as he never experienced pain. He’d done far too much, inflicted agony and visited death on far too many, to worry about it coming for him. He was death, after all.
No, his concern was the inconvenience of it all. The descent of a bunch of FBI agents chasing bodies they would never find might interfere with his plans and restrict his movements.
It also might bring exposure of other things. Things he wasn’t responsible for.
Someone else was.
“You asshole,” he hissed, suddenly enraged. Because if those other activities were uncovered, the interest in those crimes might spill over onto him. People might come around, ask questions, do a search.
“Don’t panic,” he reminded himself, focusing on the main issue. Lisa.
How did they know she was dead? For the past year and a half everyone had accepted the fact that the little slut had run off somewhere on her own. Why had that changed? What evidence could they have?
“They’re bluffing,” he told himself. “They must be.”
Wanting a distraction from the worry, he busied himself tidying his special room. He kept it clean and normal-looking, on the off chance that anybody came in here. The idea of somebody invading his privacy, learning about his other life, was enough to make him sick. Nobody could interfere with that life. He wouldn’t allow it.
What if they know about the Playground?
Impossible. The security was rigid, the existence of it shared in cyber whispers. He doubted there was another person within two states of here who was a member.
Or perhaps his closest neighbor was.
That was one thing that made Satan’s Playground so wonderful.
But there had been a lot of extra security in recent weeks. Maybe someone hacked in. …
Maybe he should quit.
Bile rose in his throat at the very thought of it. Quit? Leave the only place he’d ever belonged? No. He’d never do that.
In fact, he’d do whatever it took to keep that world safe and intact. Including removing anyone who threatened its existence. FBI agents. The sheriff. Anyone.
He could. So easily. They would never even realize he was the enemy until he took their heads off their bodies. Just as he had with that girl from the mall. The loud one. The mean one. The one who had screamed awful language and was no lady, just another whore. She hadn’t used those words on him for long.
Almost smiling as he realized just how little anyone
in this drab, colorless place knew him, he was startled by a sudden ding from his computer speakers. He had mail. Not in the playground, but an e-mail to the identity he wore in the dirt world.
Not recognizing the generic address, he almost ditched it as spam. But the subject message—You’ll Want to Read This—intrigued him. It seemed different, though it was probably someone offering to make him wealthy, or teach him the secret to better sex.
Ha. There was no secret. Because sex could never be as good as draining the blood out of a woman until the light left her eyes and the spite left her lips.
Nothing could.
Bent over his chair, he leaned down and clicked on the message to open it, ready to delete it at once.
Then he read the words on the screen. His heart pounded.
He saw the image below the words. His pulse surged.
He read the final demand. And he slowly lowered himself to the chair.
The message was simple: I know what you did. Below it was a fuzzy, black-and-white photograph, apparently taken from a surveillance camera. It wasn’t very good quality. But it didn’t need to be. The image clearly showed the two most important things: his draped form putting a large, body-size wrapped object into the back of a truck. More disturbing—an easily recognizable license plate.
“No,” he began to whisper, the word rising in volume as fury crawled up his throat and began to choke him. “No! You can’t do this!”
But the message writer apparently thought he could.
The anonymous e-mailer wanted money. A lot of it, which he didn’t have. And he wanted it within seven days.
Or the picture would go to the FBI.
CHAPTER 9
THOUGH HE’D SELDOM PLAYED standard investigator games throughout his career, in the few times he’d done so, Dean had always found himself in the role of bad cop. His naturally stern, unsmiling demeanor and size made him the tough guy, the ball-breaker. He was the one ready to throw the book at a suspect, the angry official who’d convince the perp he’d spend the rest of his miserable excuse of a life in a ten-by-ten cell if he didn’t cooperate.
FADE TO BLACK - Thrilling Romantic Suspense - Book 1 of the BLACK CATS Series Page 17
