The Prophet (Ryan Archer #2) by William Casey Moreton Page B
Authors: William Casey Moreton
Ads: Link
stuck to the edge of the countertop. Glen flicked at it with his finger as he walked by.
“That phone number seemed strangely out of place to me, and I found three occurrences this month. Cecile had dialed it twice, and received one call from that number early this week. She had called it a day before she disappeared,” Glen said.
Archer peeled the note from the Formica surface and studied the ten digits. It had a 385 area code.
“I Googled the area code,” Glen said. “It’s a Salt Lake City area code, if you care at all.”
Salt Lake City. Something pinged in Archer’s brain. He remembered the Mercedes with the plates Webb had traced to a warehouse in Salt Lake City. Archer didn’t believe in coincidences.
“You going to call it?” Glen asked.
“Not here and not now,” Archer said. “Forget about it and go back to bed. You look like shit. Don’t talk to anyone about this.”
Glen swallowed the last of the orange juice in his glass.
“No problem,” Glen said.
“Do yourself a favor and cut back on the weed, brother,” Archer said on his way out the door.
“Done and done,” Glen said with a grin.
Cecile could have done much better, Archer thought as he backed out of the driveway and turned into the street.
SEVENTEEN
Gravel crunched under the tires as Archer pulled the Land Cruiser onto the shoulder of the road above Smith’s house. He took a long drink from a bottle of water before getting out and swinging the door shut. He leaned against the truck for a moment, gazing back down the hill. Smith’s house was visible where the road twisted. A breeze washed across his face and he appreciated it. It had turned into another hot day. He could feel sweat on his back sticking to his shirt. He reached in for the water bottle and removed the cap. Another long drink. It was warm enough out and the sun was relentless enough that he decided to carry the water bottle with him as he looked around.
The gentlemen from the black Mercedes were occupying his mind. Who were they and what did they want? He had spotted them following him the previous day and then they had apparently staked out Smith’s house, knowing he was there. They had parked right here where he was standing and watched the house. What had they planned? What were they watching for? He let these questions and a few others tumble through his brain.
He stepped around to the rear of his truck and squatted near the gravel at his feet. He picked up a couple of chalky gray rocks, skipping them one at a time across the narrow asphalt lane to his left. The sun was positioned above the trees at a perfect angle to be shining directly into his eyes as he stared downhill toward Smith’s house.
His eyes dropped to the gravel shoulder and the black tire marks left by the Mercedes when it peeled out that morning. He tracked the car’s movement in his mind, syncing the recorded action to the physical evidence left behind that he could observe and study.
A wink of light caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He turned his head. A small object in the road had caught the sun. Archer rose from the squat and walked over. He straddled the tread marks left by the Mercedes and hitched both hands on his hips. Stared straight down. The object that had captured his attention was a copper shell casing. He squatted again and used the tail of his shirt to retrieve the shell casing. The tail of his shirt prevented contaminating the evidence with his fingerprints.
He put the truck in gear and turned into Smith’s driveway.
She wasn’t home. She would be at work. Archer imagined her in her studio in her tight yoga pants, bending and posing, inhaling, exhaling, leading a class of fit and tanned women in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It was a pleasant thought. He was very pleased to have her in his life and to share a bed with her. He was very fond of Smith. He went inside long enough to get another bottle of water from the refrigerator
“That phone number seemed strangely out of place to me, and I found three occurrences this month. Cecile had dialed it twice, and received one call from that number early this week. She had called it a day before she disappeared,” Glen said.
Archer peeled the note from the Formica surface and studied the ten digits. It had a 385 area code.
“I Googled the area code,” Glen said. “It’s a Salt Lake City area code, if you care at all.”
Salt Lake City. Something pinged in Archer’s brain. He remembered the Mercedes with the plates Webb had traced to a warehouse in Salt Lake City. Archer didn’t believe in coincidences.
“You going to call it?” Glen asked.
“Not here and not now,” Archer said. “Forget about it and go back to bed. You look like shit. Don’t talk to anyone about this.”
Glen swallowed the last of the orange juice in his glass.
“No problem,” Glen said.
“Do yourself a favor and cut back on the weed, brother,” Archer said on his way out the door.
“Done and done,” Glen said with a grin.
Cecile could have done much better, Archer thought as he backed out of the driveway and turned into the street.
SEVENTEEN
Gravel crunched under the tires as Archer pulled the Land Cruiser onto the shoulder of the road above Smith’s house. He took a long drink from a bottle of water before getting out and swinging the door shut. He leaned against the truck for a moment, gazing back down the hill. Smith’s house was visible where the road twisted. A breeze washed across his face and he appreciated it. It had turned into another hot day. He could feel sweat on his back sticking to his shirt. He reached in for the water bottle and removed the cap. Another long drink. It was warm enough out and the sun was relentless enough that he decided to carry the water bottle with him as he looked around.
The gentlemen from the black Mercedes were occupying his mind. Who were they and what did they want? He had spotted them following him the previous day and then they had apparently staked out Smith’s house, knowing he was there. They had parked right here where he was standing and watched the house. What had they planned? What were they watching for? He let these questions and a few others tumble through his brain.
He stepped around to the rear of his truck and squatted near the gravel at his feet. He picked up a couple of chalky gray rocks, skipping them one at a time across the narrow asphalt lane to his left. The sun was positioned above the trees at a perfect angle to be shining directly into his eyes as he stared downhill toward Smith’s house.
His eyes dropped to the gravel shoulder and the black tire marks left by the Mercedes when it peeled out that morning. He tracked the car’s movement in his mind, syncing the recorded action to the physical evidence left behind that he could observe and study.
A wink of light caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He turned his head. A small object in the road had caught the sun. Archer rose from the squat and walked over. He straddled the tread marks left by the Mercedes and hitched both hands on his hips. Stared straight down. The object that had captured his attention was a copper shell casing. He squatted again and used the tail of his shirt to retrieve the shell casing. The tail of his shirt prevented contaminating the evidence with his fingerprints.
He put the truck in gear and turned into Smith’s driveway.
She wasn’t home. She would be at work. Archer imagined her in her studio in her tight yoga pants, bending and posing, inhaling, exhaling, leading a class of fit and tanned women in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It was a pleasant thought. He was very pleased to have her in his life and to share a bed with her. He was very fond of Smith. He went inside long enough to get another bottle of water from the refrigerator
Similar Books
