Chrome-plated.
Holy crap, had Farrell been shot, his body ditched somewhere, his car towed to Dott’s? Obviously homicide was a possibility. According to Joel anyway.
I picked up the empty Skoll chewing tobacco can.
I had no way of proving it, but I did know that Farrell enjoyed his Skoll and I knew the discarded tin might have belonged to him. If it did belong to him, it was proof that he’d made the drive to Lake Desolation on Saturday. What I could not prove was what had happened there or why he went there in the first place. Who or what had been shot? And where had Farrell disappeared to as a result of it?
I had no idea.
I fingered the “Closed Untill Further Notice” note, turned it over, glanced once more at the sketch. Two wavy but parallel lines connected at one end to a kind of square. Under the sketch the letters S and C and a question mark. I couldn’t imagine what they stood for. I couldn’t even begin to come up with possibilities.
“Santa Claus,” I whispered to myself. But a whole bunch of innocent kids had been exposed to a deadly carcinogen for nearly a year and this was no joke.
I set the paper back down, sat back, locked eyes on my husband’s still alive, brown eyes.
“I’m in a real fix this time, Jordan,” I said. “You were in my boots, what would you do?”
I heard his voice inside my head.
“ It’s a mistake to stop looking for Farrell .”
I picked up the business card, turned it over, eyeballed the impression of lipstick red lips, the name “Natalie” written over them in blue ballpoint. Turning the card back over, I took note of the bar’s phone number. Without thinking about it, the Blackberry appeared in my hand. I punched the number in.
After five rings someone picked up.
“Thatcher Street,” someone said. Man’s voice. Stern, gruff.
“Natalie please,” I said.
“Hang on,” said the man. I heard him slap the phone down hard onto the bar. There was an audible commotion coming from somewhere in the background. Then the phone being picked back up.
“This is Natalie.” Soft, tentative, afraid maybe.
My pulse picked up with the sound of her voice. A voice Farrell would be familiar with.
“Hello,” she said, begging for a response. “Hello.”
I wanted to speak. But something inside was holding me back. Fear I guessed. Or maybe I just had no idea what to say.
“Hello,” she said again. Louder this time.
Finally I opened my mouth.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Wrong number.”
I killed the call.
I took another drink of beer, stared into Jordan’s brown eyes. He told me to give Farrell’s cell another shot.
“ You never know… ”
I did it.
The call was immediately transferred to the answering service. This time, instead of allowing me to leave a message, the recorded voice told me the mailbox was full. The connection cut.
That was it then.
It didn’t take a No-Shit-Sherlock to know there’d be no chance of contacting Farrell now. At least by phone.
Another glance at my husband.
Why not try Tina again?
I fingered in the number for the Farrell residence. Tina answered after only one ring, as if she’d been waiting by the phone.
“This is Tina,” she said, formal, unaffected.
I wondered if she picked up my name and number via the caller ID.
“Tina, this is Spike Harrison,” I said. “I was wondering if by chance you’ve heard from your husband.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “No.”
Her voice had gone from deadpan to hurt. I pictured the spent shell casing. Was a missing person’s case in fact about to turn into a murder?
“Tina,” I said, “does Jimmy own a handgun?”
She hesitated for a beat. Then she said, “I don’t think so.”
“You sure?”
“Sure as I can be,” she said, a double hint of doubt in her voice.
“What about your dad?”
“What the hell is this?” she snapped. “What are you trying to get at?”
“What kind of tobacco Jimmy chewing these days?”
She thought about it for a
Holy crap, had Farrell been shot, his body ditched somewhere, his car towed to Dott’s? Obviously homicide was a possibility. According to Joel anyway.
I picked up the empty Skoll chewing tobacco can.
I had no way of proving it, but I did know that Farrell enjoyed his Skoll and I knew the discarded tin might have belonged to him. If it did belong to him, it was proof that he’d made the drive to Lake Desolation on Saturday. What I could not prove was what had happened there or why he went there in the first place. Who or what had been shot? And where had Farrell disappeared to as a result of it?
I had no idea.
I fingered the “Closed Untill Further Notice” note, turned it over, glanced once more at the sketch. Two wavy but parallel lines connected at one end to a kind of square. Under the sketch the letters S and C and a question mark. I couldn’t imagine what they stood for. I couldn’t even begin to come up with possibilities.
“Santa Claus,” I whispered to myself. But a whole bunch of innocent kids had been exposed to a deadly carcinogen for nearly a year and this was no joke.
I set the paper back down, sat back, locked eyes on my husband’s still alive, brown eyes.
“I’m in a real fix this time, Jordan,” I said. “You were in my boots, what would you do?”
I heard his voice inside my head.
“ It’s a mistake to stop looking for Farrell .”
I picked up the business card, turned it over, eyeballed the impression of lipstick red lips, the name “Natalie” written over them in blue ballpoint. Turning the card back over, I took note of the bar’s phone number. Without thinking about it, the Blackberry appeared in my hand. I punched the number in.
After five rings someone picked up.
“Thatcher Street,” someone said. Man’s voice. Stern, gruff.
“Natalie please,” I said.
“Hang on,” said the man. I heard him slap the phone down hard onto the bar. There was an audible commotion coming from somewhere in the background. Then the phone being picked back up.
“This is Natalie.” Soft, tentative, afraid maybe.
My pulse picked up with the sound of her voice. A voice Farrell would be familiar with.
“Hello,” she said, begging for a response. “Hello.”
I wanted to speak. But something inside was holding me back. Fear I guessed. Or maybe I just had no idea what to say.
“Hello,” she said again. Louder this time.
Finally I opened my mouth.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Wrong number.”
I killed the call.
I took another drink of beer, stared into Jordan’s brown eyes. He told me to give Farrell’s cell another shot.
“ You never know… ”
I did it.
The call was immediately transferred to the answering service. This time, instead of allowing me to leave a message, the recorded voice told me the mailbox was full. The connection cut.
That was it then.
It didn’t take a No-Shit-Sherlock to know there’d be no chance of contacting Farrell now. At least by phone.
Another glance at my husband.
Why not try Tina again?
I fingered in the number for the Farrell residence. Tina answered after only one ring, as if she’d been waiting by the phone.
“This is Tina,” she said, formal, unaffected.
I wondered if she picked up my name and number via the caller ID.
“Tina, this is Spike Harrison,” I said. “I was wondering if by chance you’ve heard from your husband.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “No.”
Her voice had gone from deadpan to hurt. I pictured the spent shell casing. Was a missing person’s case in fact about to turn into a murder?
“Tina,” I said, “does Jimmy own a handgun?”
She hesitated for a beat. Then she said, “I don’t think so.”
“You sure?”
“Sure as I can be,” she said, a double hint of doubt in her voice.
“What about your dad?”
“What the hell is this?” she snapped. “What are you trying to get at?”
“What kind of tobacco Jimmy chewing these days?”
She thought about it for a
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