The Shop (18 page)

Jolie went to seven houses and asked about the standoff at the Starliner Motel. Nobody saw anything. Or didn’t remember seeing anything, which was the same. Kids played in the street. One of them, harnessed to an iPod, zoomed his bike up and down the road in the dark.

Jolie started back up the road. She heard the hum of bike tires, and the boy skidded to a stop right in front of her. He let the earbuds drop. “You asked my mom about the standoff?”

“Why, did she see something?”

“No, but I did.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw a guy.”

He was walking the bike now, the two of them side by side, heading up the low incline. “What guy?”

Kid shrugged. “Never saw him before.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Kinda hard to see. He kept to the shadows.”

“Where’d you see him?”

He pointed back the way they’d come. “See that first house on the left side? See the boat?”

Jolie could barely make out an aluminum boat lying facedown on some blocks.

“I saw him crawl out of there.”

“Anything about him stand out?” she asked.

“He had long hair. Didn’t have a shirt on.”

“Pants?”

“Jeans. They were kind of low. Not like they were supposed to be, just they were big on him, like he was starved skinny.”

“Sounds like you saw a lot.”

He shrugged.

“Then what?”

“I was on my bike. When I came back, he was gone. But a few minutes later, I saw him in the Frohmans’ backyard.”

“What was he doing?’

The boy paused, looked at her. “He pointed his gun at me.”

“His gun?”

“He said, ‘Get the fuck out of here or you’ll be sorry.’”

“He yelled at you in broad daylight?”

“You think I’m lying?”

“No.”

“You’re thinking, how come nobody saw anything? Because everyone was inside. Or in school. That’s why I never said anything to my dad, ’cause I cut school.”

“You cut school?”

“I pretended I had a stomachache. Mom works, so I went home and snuck in and got my tackle and went fishing at the Ghost Lakes.”

“How was the fishing?”

“Crappie.”

Jolie smiled—kid had a way about him. “What did you do when he waved the gun at you?”

“Are you kidding? I took off! Mama didn’t raise no fools.” He was good with accents. Sounded like that black kid who had a TV show when Jolie was a child. “You gonna tell me what’s going on? Was he the guy who took that lady hostage?”

“Could be.”

“Then I’m a hero.” He held his hand out. “So where’s my reward?”

“I guess I could talk to your mom.”

He sighed. “Didn’t think I’d get anything.”

“You mind if I record your statement?”

“Nope.”

Jolie pulled out her microcassette recorder, and they went through it again. After they were done, it was full dark. “You going to be all right riding back?”

“Are you kidding?” He got on his bike. “You don’t want to hear about the car?”

Jolie stared at him. “Car?”

As she walked back up the road toward the motel, Jolie thought about the description of the car Mark Armstrong had given her. Dark blue, “official-looking, like the Secret Service, only older.”

Jolie asked him if he saw who was driving. It was just one guy. He had a buzz cut, wore a dark jacket. Close to Charly’s description of the man at her house. Jolie asked him how many times the car went by.

Four times, he said. Cruising, real slow—it spooked him.

Before or after the man hid under the boat?

After.

Anything else?

“The front was crushed in. The bumper was dragging, like he’d just been in an accident.”

It appeared that someone, someone “official,” had picked up Luke Perdue. Luke managed to get away, maybe by causing an accident? Then he hid under a boat, went into the Frohmans’ backyard, and threatened a boy with a gun. It would have taken him only a few minutes to get from the Frohmans’ backyard to the Starliner Motel.

Jolie didn’t have any more facts, but she could guess what happened from there. Luke Perdue must have spotted Kathy Westbrook and forced his way into her room. He’d been described as desperate. Desperate and scared?

Running away from Buzz Cut? Did he somehow get Buzz Cut’s gun?

The gun Luke had used that day had been a “throwdown”—the serial numbers had been filed off. It was untraceable. That would fit with a rogue FBI agent, or even a regular cop. Some cops were known to have an extra, untraceable weapon on them, in case a situation went bad and they needed to point to another suspect.

Be prepared.
The motto wasn’t just for Boy Scouts.

She could ask Louis to put a BOLO on the car. Dark blue, smashed right quarter panel. But it all happened a month ago. The car was probably long gone. She could only ask Louis for so many favors before wearing out her welcome.

She took out her phone and called Zoe.

Zoe answered on the first ring.

“Did Riley tell you why Luke broke up with her?”

“Why he broke up with her?” Zoe sounded confused. “I don’t think she knows.”

“He never told her?”

“She couldn’t reach him. He wouldn’t answer the phone. He hid out from her.”

“Hid out?”

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not?”

“Because that wasn’t fair. They were in love.”

She was trying to sound like a caring friend.

“He didn’t really love her, did he?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was faint, as if she’d pushed the phone away from her mouth. “I guess, I don’t know, maybe he was using her.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know. Honest.”

“What did Luke look like?”

“He was skinny.”

Jolie vaguely remembered his picture in the paper. “He had long hair and a mustache?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Zoe, did Riley tell you what happened that night?”

“He just…left. At first she thought it was a joke. I was gone that weekend with my mom, but she called me a bunch of times. She was so upset. She couldn’t reach him, and it drove her crazy. She tried
everything
. She drove over to his house, but either he was out or he wasn’t answering.”

“Did she tell you what happened right before he left?”

“Just what I told you—he said he was going to his truck to get more pot.”

“So there was no hint that he was going to leave? She thought he would be back?”

“Of course she did! That was why she was so upset.”

“Did he meet the vice president?”

“What?”

“The vice president. He was there that weekend.”

“I don’t think so. There’s no way her mom and dad would introduce Luke to the vice president. We had our orders.”

“Orders?”

“Like, if anybody important came, we were supposed to stay at the bungalow. We weren’t supposed to leave, because they had to have their privacy. They didn’t want us spying on them.”

“Could you spy on them?”

She didn’t answer.

“Zoe?”

“Look, I…”

“Zoe, this is important. I’m not out to bust you. I just want to know if you’ve ever spied on any of Riley’s parents’ guests. Have you?”

“Riley’s gonna
kill
me!”

“This is important, Zoe. It might have to do with what happened to Luke.”

“You mean, why he
died
?”

Jolie didn’t answer.

“Uh, well, there’s this old tunnel—it comes out by the pool, like there’s a backdoor to the cabanas. On hot nights sometimes, we sneak out there and have a smoke—sometimes we raid the liquor cabinet—and if anybody comes we’re, like,
gone
.”

“Did Luke know about it?”

“Uh…”

“
Did Luke know about it?
”

Her answer was meek. “Yes.”

Jolie called Royce Brady again. This time she got him. She told him to meet her at the motel.

“
Now?
”

“Now.”

He showed up ten minutes later and let her into room nine. She did a thorough search. Opened the toilet tank, ran her hand behind it. Reached under the bed, especially around the casters. Checked between the bedspring and the mattress. She looked in every nook and cranny that could hold a cell phone, but there was nothing.

“Are we done here?” Royce said.

“Looks like.”

“Good.” He locked the door behind them. He didn’t bother to ask her what she was looking for, just stalked to his car. He had his own troubles.

Full dark now. Jolie went behind room nine, shined her Mag Lite up at the narrow bathroom window, which cranked outward. Nothing on the ledge. Nothing on the ground below, except for weeds and trash. She walked alongside the oleanders, shining her light through the leaves.

Forget it
.

He probably stashed the phone in his apartment, and whoever came to the house that day found it.

Jolie opened her car door. She stared down the road at the neighborhood where Mark Armstrong lived. There
was
one more place to look. The boat. The upside-down boat on cinder blocks that Luke hid under.

This time the street was quiet when Jolie parked at the top and walked down to the house with the boat.

The boat was in the third yard down close to the street. Jolie got on her hands and knees on the springy grass and looked under the boat. Played her Mag Lite over the cinder blocks, felt along their exposed edges. No cell phone. He could have hidden it anywhere. Maybe the FBI really
did
have it. One thing for sure: it wasn’t here. The only objects she found were three empty beer bottles and a snuff can—kids must use the boat as a place to party.

She heard a door open and peered out. Someone came out onto the porch of the house two yards down. Jolie stayed under the boat, hoping they’d go back in.

When the neighbor went back inside, she slid out and walked back up the road to her car.

Franklin Haddox tried to focus on the man sitting on the bench seat opposite him. They were still on the boat. The guy looked familiar—Frank thought he might be his cousin. Nick, the writer. But the man didn’t act like a cousin. He wasn’t dressed like a writer, either. He wore a dark blue cap pulled low over his forehead and a windbreaker. He looked deadly serious, as if something terrible had happened. Lines of disapproval bracketed his mouth. He reminded Frank of his security detail back when he was in the cabinet. Much more professional than the buffoons he had now.

Frank understood this was official business. He decided not to say anything—he wanted to see where this was going. Plus, he had a massive headache and no memory of what he’d been doing before he found himself sitting in the galley, resting his head on his arms on the dinette table. Sleeping it off, maybe.

The man opposite him leaned forward so their arms were touching. He smiled, which made Frank feel better. There was something confidential in the smile, as if they shared a common goal. It put him at ease immediately.

“What do you know about the man under this seat?”

“Seat?” The feeling that they shared a common goal vanished. Frank felt something move in his chest. He realized what it was: fear, a clump of it, dissolving quickly and shooting into this system.

The man said, “Do you need a refresher course?”

“Refresher course?”

The man sighed and rose to his feet. He looked saddened, as if he carried the weight of the world on his back. He pushed the seat cushion to the floor and with one swift move opened the storage compartment. Quick—then let the lid slam back down.

But Frank saw it all right. Mashed into the small space, fetal position, neck at an impossible angle, a human pretzel—it would be impossibly painful if the contents inside the box were still alive. But they weren’t. Even with the lid down, Frank could see the eye, fixed upward like the eye of a gaffed tarpon.

The realization slammed down on him with its full weight. His face radiated heat. “You don’t think
I
would…I couldn’t do something like that.” But he knew people who could. Surely there was a way to sort this out.

The man stood over him like a stern father.

Frank’s vocal cords barely gained purchase, and his question came out in a squeak. “Who are you?”

“Special Agent Eric Salter.”

“FBI?” A fresh bolt of terror shot through him.

“Correct.”

Stall him
. “Can I see some ID?”

Salter reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out his wallet badge, and flipped it open—he was FBI, all right. He put it back, plucked at the dark slacks above his knees, hunkered down beside the offending bench seat, and looked into Frank’s eyes. “What do you know about this?”

“Nothing!”

“There’s a dead man in your bench seat. You’ve been lying here with your head on your arms for approximately—” he stared at his expensive diver’s watch, “—twenty minutes. Sleeping it off?”

“No—I mean yes.”

“Do you know this man?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

He reached for the lid. “Refresh your memory?”

“
No!
Please, no!”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! I swear! I couldn’t…” He stopped. Knew full well he could order someone killed. Order it and sit on his boat and clink glasses as it was carried out. But it was for a good reason—

Special Agent Salter slammed his hand down on the dinette. Nonsensically, Frank thought:
Careful of the wood!

“Did you kill this man?”

“No!”

“Did you kill this man?”

“No! Are you crazy? I couldn’t, I can’t. Someone must have—”

“What? Sneaked in here while you were sleeping? Right here, with your head on the table?”

Then he hammered Frank with questions. Where was he going? Who was on board? Did he know this man? The questions came in a rapid-fire sequence, like a drill sergeant. Frank didn’t have a chance to answer them fully.

Finally he managed to say, “I want my lawyer.”

The agent rose to his feet and stood over him. His face stormy, the anger building up in his chest, his shoulders. He was massive, like a boulder about to roll downhill and crush whatever lay underneath. “Get up.”

“Up?”

“Get up now.”

Frank started sliding across the seat.

“Do it
now
!”

He scrambled out so quickly he banged his knee on the bench. He registered the throbbing pain, but it was second to the pure adrenaline of his fear, hurtling through his veins. He stood back. Legs shaking.

The agent shoved the cushion to the galley sole and flung open the lid.

The burst of adrenaline was so hard, so explosive, that Frank felt his heart seize. He stared down at another man, this one mercifully head-down, pressed into the box like a broken toy.