Jack of Spades

by Diane Capri

  She heard a knock on the door. She whipped around to peer through the window. Shorty was standing there, lips blue, shivering in his wetsuit. She grinned. The idiot hadn’t thought to take a towel.

  She grabbed an oversized beach towel from the pile near the door and let him inside. She didn’t even care that he was dripping wet. She just wanted him to stop shivering.

  “Sorry, Patty,” he said between chattering teeth as he peeled off his wet suit and wrapped a dry towel around his naked torso like a skirt. His skin was deeply tanned and his shaggy hair was sun bleached to a golden brown. “The waves were amazing today. Lost track of time.”

  She handed his dry clothes over and he dressed quickly, but he was still shivering.

  “Come on upstairs where it’s warmer. I’ll heat soup for dinner. We’ve got that good bread you picked up yesterday,” she said as he followed her toward the stairs to their flat while she chatted on about inconsequential things.

  He’d come home safely. Maybe he would sleep well tonight after all. That was all she cared about because she was exhausted with work and worry and she could use some rest, too.

  Shorty dressed in a sweater and jeans while Patty heated and dished up the food. She ladled the hearty bean soup into large bowls, put the bread on a plate, and set out two bottles of Labatt’s beer.

  They dug into the hot soup and bread like coal miners after a hard day in the mines. Windsurfing always left them surprisingly ravenous. After a bit, Shorty cocked his head and raised the brown bottle in a toast. They clinked the long-necked bottles together and took satisfying pulls on the beer.

  Between mouthfuls of soup, Shorty said, “Something strange happened on the beach tonight.”

  “Do tell,” she replied sardonically just to see him grin. Lots of strange things happened in California, in her experience. Especially on the beach. And Siesta Beach seemed weirder than a lot of the others. The never-ending stream of weird stuff was one of the reasons she liked the place. Never a dull moment.

  “A big guy, maybe six-five, maybe two-fifty, came up to me,” Shorty said, still shoveling in food as if he hadn’t eaten in years. He refilled his bowl from the soup pot Patty had placed in the middle of the table.

  The moment he mentioned the guy, the little hairs on the back of Patty’s neck stood up and a chill ran through her. She stopped the spoon in mid-air, steadied her hand, and kept her voice neutral. “Oh, yeah? What’s so strange about that?”

  “Well, it was pretty dark already. Nobody out there except the regulars. And he wasn’t a surfer or nothin’. Didn’t have any equipment with him. He was wearin’ work clothes and work boots. A brown leather jacket. On the beach. Like maybe he’d just come from some sort of construction work or something.” Shorty had warmed to his story between bites and swigs and didn’t seem to notice that Patty had laid down her spoon and simply waited. “Really strange to see that.”

  Patty clasped her hands under the table where he couldn’t see she was shaking with nerves. “What did he want?”

  “Didn’t talk much. He asked me a few questions about windsurfing. Like was the equipment expensive and how long did it take me to learn. Stuff like that,” Shorty said.

  She nodded and tried to relax. Maybe it wasn’t him. And maybe she wasn’t as cool about what had happened in Laconia all those months ago as she’d thought.

  “What did you say?” Patty asked, but the sinking feeling in her gut told her the answer before he replied.

  “I told him my girlfriend is the best teacher around. That she taught me and I’ve got no native talent whatsoever. And I suggested he stop by here tomorrow. Told him you’d give him a couple of lessons. On the house.” He shoveled a few more bites into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Who knows? He might even buy some stuff. He works construction. He’s gotta have a little money for lessons and equipment, right?”

  Patty’s mouth had dried up. She sipped her beer so she’d be able to speak, but it turned out she didn’t have to say anything.

  Shorty finished up his second bowl of soup and went for his third. Potato farmers have big appetites and he still ate like that, even though he hadn’t done any real farming in almost two years. He kept right on talking.

  “All the times I’ve been out there on that beach, nobody’s ever asked me stuff like that. Especially not when it’s this late and this cold. And tonight? Only the diehards are out there. Serious people who already know what they’re doing. Already have their equipment, you know? So this new guy wearing work clothes being right there was strange right off the bat.” He looked at her with those big brown eyes she loved and she couldn’t say anything at all. She simply nodded.

  He rested both forearms on the table and leaned forward, giving her that earnest farm boy look that made her fall in love with him back in St. Leonard. “We might be turning the corner, Patty. Maybe business will pick up. We can rent a little bungalow close by. Won’t need to sleep above the store. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  She nodded, “Yeah, it would.”

  “I mean, I sure don’t want to move back to Canada. Do you?” Shorty cocked his head as if he didn’t understand her lack of enthusiasm. He’d found them a paying customer. Why wasn’t she more excited?

  “No. No, I don’t want to move back,” she said, stirring her soup with the spoon. She patted his hand and he seemed satisfied with her answer. He returned his attention to his soup and his beer.

  Running back to Canada was the last thing she wanted.

  Or maybe the second to the last thing.

  The very last thing was what she’d worried about non-stop since they’d left Laconia. That this particular big man would come looking for them. Because if he did that, he’d have a reason. A reason she didn’t want to think about.

  Patty drew a big breath into her lungs and held it there as long as she could. She exhaled slowly, the way Grandpa taught her to survive when the big waves capsized her board. Patty could hold her breath a good long time. Two to three minutes or more, probably. Long enough to stay alive until she could surface again for great gulps of air.

  The big man was here. He’d found Shorty, and he was asking about lessons, which meant he was asking about her.

  No way for her to fix that. That horse was already out of the barn, as Shorty used to say when he was farming.

  It was only a matter of time before the big man walked into the shop. And not much time, either. Maybe even tonight. Or tomorrow.

  She had to figure out why he was here.

  She needed to decide what to do about him when he showed up.

  Most of all, she had to have a plan for how to handle the trouble that would absolutely come along with him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Friday, February 25

  6:45 p.m.

  Laconia, New Hampshire

  When Smithers turned the last corner on the drive into Laconia, Kim saw it was a larger place than she had expected. The sun had set, bathing the town in a warm red after glow that gave the brick buildings an old-time feel. The electric streetlights were meant to mimic gaslights of yesteryear, enhancing the effect. The ambiance reminded her of a lot of other small towns intent on retaining their historic heritage she’d visited over the years.

  “I have a reservation at an Inn within walking distance of downtown. Can you drop me there?” She fished around in her pocket for her phone to get the exact address, which was on a side street near the city offices. “There’s a bistro close by. The menu looked good online. I’ll buy you dinner and you can fill me in on your investigation so far.”

  “Works for me.” Smithers offered his megawatt smile. “I don’t need the directions. We’re all at The Laconia Inn, too. There are no hotels in this town and that’s the only place large enough to house our team. One of our guys left yesterday. We saved the room for you.”

  “Good.” She glanced at the phone and saw she’d had a call from Gaspar, her former partner. He’d left a message. She slipped her phone into her pocket. She
’d retrieve the message later.

  Smithers pulled the big SUV into a narrow driveway beside a red brick building constructed during the Revolutionary War. “You can get out here. The check-in desk is right behind those doors in the front lobby. I’ll park in the lot out back. We can walk to the bistro. The parking area over there is nonexistent.”

  Kim climbed down from the SUV and grappled with her bags until she freed them from the passenger compartment. She stood aside, close against the wall of snow that had been shoveled off the driveway, to let Smithers pull through. Then she slipped along the packed snow to the entrance walk.

  A sign proclaiming the features of the house was barely visible above the snowbanks, but Kim was too cold to stop and read it. She continued past the sign toward the nicely shoveled porch.

  She set her bags down and twisted the old-fashioned doorknob to open the oversized wooden door, which was probably original construction and had swollen tight against the frame. She leaned all of her ninety-seven pounds into it, but the door didn’t budge. She peered through the cut glass windows. The desk clerk was nowhere to be seen.

  She pressed the doorbell with the palm of her gloved hand while turning her back to the wind in a futile effort not to freeze to death. The doorbell’s melodious ringing sounds chimed inside. The tune sounded like a kid playing “Yankee Doodle” on a kazoo. She figured that noise could get annoying really fast. She grinned and pressed the button a few more times, hoping the song could be heard in the back room or wherever the clerk might be.

  After about a dozen choruses, a short, bald man wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a heavy sweater, and tan corduroy pants hurried to the door. His face was scrunched into a comical, horrified look. He grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and yanked hard enough to lose his footing. He stumbled backward but didn’t fall, only because he never let go.

  By the time Kim had wrestled her bags into the lobby, the man was steady on his feet once more. He closed the door against the wind and swiped the six remaining strands of hair into place on the top of his head.

  “Here, let me help you,” he said, rolling her suitcase across the floor to the desk. “I’m afraid we’re at full occupancy for tonight, but I can call around to find you a room at one of Laconia’s other excellent accommodations.”

  “I have a reservation,” Kim said, not the least amused. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her badge wallet, and flashed it close in front of his myopic gaze.

  “Oh. Oh. Well that’s good then.” He cleared his throat and peered closely at her ID through the bifocals on the horned-rims. After he’d examined everything to his total satisfaction, he said dourly, “Let’s get you set up.”

  He hurried around to the other side of the desk and clacked a few keys on his computer keyboard. His words tumbled out as if they’d been propelled against his will. “Yes, here we are, Agent Kim L. Otto. You have our last available suite. It’s also one of our nicest. We already have your deposit on file. If you can just sign here while I get your key, I will show you upstairs.”

  He led the way up the old-fashioned staircase. Kim gave him a solid head start before she followed behind, just in case he lost his balance and fell backward again. He struggled with her bag, but eventually made it to the second floor, breathing heavily. He used the weighty brass key to open the door to a room overlooking the street.

  He bent slightly at the waist and extended his arm with a flourish. Kim shook her head and walked inside. She held out her hand and he gave her the key.

  “I can find my way around. I’m sure you’ll be needed downstairs,” she said by way of dismissing his futzing.

  “Of course.” He looked a little bewildered, but he backed out of the room and closed the door. She turned the lock behind him.

  Kim moved her bag closer to the floral chintz sofa and dropped her laptop case onto the cushions. The queen-sized bed was covered in floral everything, with more pillows than she’d ever seen gathered on one flat surface before. Fortunately, there was enough floor space on one side to store them all. She shoved them off the bed.

  The suite only had one room, but it was spacious. A small desk with a chair was positioned near the large windows. When the inn was remodeled, they must have insulated well because the room was warm enough and not drafty, like some historic buildings can be.

  The bathroom was large, too. The huge clawfoot tub was big enough to swallow Kim whole if she was foolish enough to get into it. Which she wasn’t. A separate shower stall was nestled behind the door. The towels were heavy and had a luxurious feel to them.

  All in all, the place was serviceable enough. It lacked a coffee maker, but she spied a room service menu on the desk. So far, so good.

  Kim found her cell phone and listened to Gaspar’s brief message. It consisted of two word. “Call me.”

  She prepared to do precisely that, but before the call connected, Smithers knocked and said, “Ready for dinner?”

  Gaspar would have to wait. She disconnected, dropped the phone into her pocket, and opened the door. “Come on in. Let me wash up quickly and we’ll go.”

  Smithers stepped into the room and immediately dwarfed everything in it, including her. His bulk made the space seem small and crowded. He had to be three hundred fifty pounds and six-four, at least. Which made her feel glad he was on her team instead of working against her.

  She went into the bathroom, used the toilet, splashed some warm water on her face, washed her hands and tucked in the few stray hairs that had escaped the tight bun she wore at the base of her neck. She’d meant to apply a bit of makeup before dinner, but she’d never unpacked and her makeup bag was in the other room with Smithers. She shrugged.

  In less than five minutes, she’d returned.

  “Takes my wife an hour to put her lipstick on.” He grinned. “You really are fast for a girl, Otto.”

  “So I’ve heard,” she smiled back, slipping her arms into her parka. “Is the bistro far? I’m starving.”

  Smithers laughed, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor. “I’m always starving.”

  She followed him through the doorway, used the big brass key to lock her stuff inside, and they headed down the stairs. When they reached the lobby, Smithers yanked the front door open without fanfare and they went outside.

  “Watch that door,” he said, turning up his collar and slipping his big hands into black leather gloves. “It sticks.”

  She smirked. “Good to know.”

  The wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped in the past hour. She pulled up her hood. She stuffed her hands into her gloves and her gloves into her pockets. But damn, Laconia was one cold place in February. How did people actually survive here?

  Smithers chose the north sidewalk, which had been shoveled wide enough for them to walk side-by-side, and set off at a fast clip. He didn’t talk. She didn’t either. The air was so cold that even opening her mouth practically caused her saliva to freeze.

  They hustled about four blocks in the biting wind until Smithers finally stopped in front of a narrow bistro. They went inside where a big fire roared in the fireplace. Behind the long counter was a nice selection of wine and booze, allowing diners to warm up on the inside as well as the outside. The aromas coming from the kitchen in the back were, as Kim’s younger sister would say, “to die for.”

  The place was surprisingly busy. Kim saw only two open tables, which meant her conversation with Smithers could be too easily overheard. A serious exchange of intel would have to wait.

  Smithers said, “The wine is great, and the food is excellent. But portions here are tiny. Be aware.”

  A slender woman wearing a white apron tied around her waist seated them near the fire. She told them the specials and Kim ordered the salad with roast beef in it. Smithers ordered the same thing, but he asked for three servings instead of one, and extra bread.

  The woman looked bewildered. “Are others joining you?”

  “No. I’m just hungry.” He gave her the
blinding smile and she relaxed.

  They ordered wine and waited for the bread.

  Kim looked at the menu again, just in case she needed more food later, and then laid it on the table. Once the server had brought the bread and wine and left them alone, Kim asked, “What’s on your agenda for tomorrow?”

  “Same as yours, I expect. Nose around. See if we can figure out what happened out there. Find out whether Reacher is involved.” He tore into the bread like a man who hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  She smiled. Gaspar ate like that, too. As if every meal might be his last.

  “Have you talked to the local cops?” Kim nibbled on one of the hot dinner rolls, fresh from the oven.

  Smithers nodded and lowered the volume on his sonorous voice to avoid casual and purposeful eavesdroppers alike. “The Laconia Chief of Detectives is Jim Shaw. Good guy. Seems to have a solid grasp of local activities. Detective Brenda Amos has been our contact. From the look on your face, I take it the names mean something to you?”

  “I’m scheduled to meet with both in the morning,” Kim said. “Usually, if I’m tasked with interviewing them, it means they had some contact with Reacher. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be on my list.”

  Smithers nodded again. “I’ll come along. If Reacher was involved in this, we might as well work together. Save us both some shoe leather and briefing time.”

  Kim shrugged, which was Gaspar’s all-purpose gesture. It could mean anything, or nothing. But she wouldn’t mind having Smithers along. He could do the driving and be the muscle should she need any, since she wasn’t totally sure that her Glock would actually fire in this frigid weather. Some handguns fired well in extreme cold and some didn’t. She kept the lubricant to a minimum to avoid freezing, but she would prefer not to be forced to find out.

  “Tell me what you know about the ruins, the fire, everything,” she said after the salads were delivered.

  “Not a lot. The place was a motel once upon a time. It hadn’t been operating for a couple of decades when some investors took over. They had trouble with their renovations and their permitting, I guess. No one we’ve talked to so far thinks the place was open for business when it burned to the ground,” Smithers said as he ate his salad and sopped the plate with the bread. He refilled the wine glasses from the bottle on the table.