Missouri Loves Company (Rip Lane Book 1) (10 page)

CHAPTER 34

A
NNA
’
S NEIGHBORHOOD WAS
the kind of place where pizza delivery drivers would never get tipped, and where police cruisers stopped by only when necessary.

Anna’s house looked like something a child might draw. Crooked roof, sloppy paint job, small yard. It was the kind of house a waitress would choose to rent if she wanted to save up her money.

I circled the block once to get a perspective of the area. There wasn’t much activity on Bluebird Street. No pizza delivery drivers. No police cruisers.

My Honda Fury slowed down, rolled a few feet, and came to rest at the curb in front of a purple and yellow house that was located down the street from Anna’s house. From there I could watch Anna’s front door, without her being able to see me from her windows.

A motorcycle is not the best vehicle to use on a stakeout. You have nothing to hide behind. No roof. No dash. No sun visor. And you are exposed to the elements. Rain. Snow. Heat. You cannot sit on your motorcycle for hours at a time without attracting attention. You cannot be inconspicuous.

But I had no car. All I had was a motorcycle and a motor home and an ATV and a bicycle. The motorcycle was my best option.

I could have rented a car to use on the stakeout, but I didn’t think the situation warranted it. It wasn’t as if I were staking out a fugitive.

Anna’s house had neither a driveway nor a garage, which meant she would have to park on the street. No cars were parked on the street in front of her house, so I assumed she wasn’t home. Only time would tell. Maybe a light would come on inside her house after the sun went down. Or maybe Anna would walk out the front door. You never know what to expect on a stakeout. All you can do is stay awake and keep your eyes peeled.

Staying awake requires coffee. Lots of coffee. But you have to be careful how much you drink. You don’t want to have to leave the stakeout site because your bladder is full. So it’s a tradeoff. Not enough coffee, you fall asleep. Too much coffee, you have to pee.

Surveillance is a boring job, but you have to remain alert. It’s not easy to do. Your mind drifts, your eyes glaze over. You keep waiting for something to happen. Hours pass. Days. Weeks. Then something finally happens. If you’re not alert, you might miss it.

This is why I avoid distractions when I’m on a stakeout. I don’t read books, I don’t listen to music, and I don’t play with my phone.

Sometimes you need high-tech equipment on a stakeout. Digital cameras. Infrared binoculars. Laptops. In most cases, however, I try to follow the KISS rule—Keep It Simple, Stupid. I try to get by with as little high-tech equipment as possible.

Once I read a story about NASA. The United States government agency was faced with a problem during the height of the space race. American astronauts needed to write notes during space missions, but ballpoint pens would not work in the zero gravity of outer space. NASA was determined to solve this problem. The agency went to work. Millions of dollars later they finally developed a ballpoint pen that could write in zero gravity.

The Russians faced the same problem.

But they solved it a different way.

They used a pencil.

They followed the KISS rule.

It was a nice day for a stakeout. Blue skies, gentle breeze, not too hot. I was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. Not only because they protected me from the sun but also because they served as a disguise. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it was good enough.

I used to wear some elaborate disguises when I worked as a marshal. Once I dressed as a clown. Another time I was a cowboy. I must have worn more disguises than Sherlock Holmes ever dreamed of. Archaeologist, barber, bartender, bricklayer, butcher, carpenter, chauffeur, cook, dentist, farmer, fireman, forester, gangbanger, mailman, mechanic, ninja, paramedic, pharmacist, pilot, pimp, plumber, priest, prisoner, referee, roofer, surgeon, thief, trucker, veterinarian, waiter, welder.

When I’m on a stakeout I always have a cover story prepared—just in case I’m questioned by suspicious neighbors. I might tell them I’m waiting for somebody. A girlfriend. A realtor. A pizza delivery driver. Or I might say that my missing dog was spotted in the neighborhood. Or I might tell suspicious neighbors that I’m a life insurance salesman who needs to sign up ten new customers by the end of the day. That one always works. Not only do the neighbors leave me alone after that, they hide in their houses until I leave.

The afternoon passed slowly. I tried to keep myself occupied. My thoughts ran from one thing to another. I thought about my travels. Places where I’ve been. Places where I would go. I thought about my novel. Plots I could use. Characters I could develop. I thought about my former girlfriends. The good times. The bad. I thought about my law-enforcement career. The friends I made. The enemies.

A good-looking woman walked past, jarring me out of my reverie. I watched her. I could have watched her all day. But she was gone in no time. And I knew I would never see her again.

Things always seem to work out like that. It’s a phenomenon I call the Rachel Factor. Here’s how it works. You see Rachel McAdams walking down the street. You want to spend some time looking at her. Appreciating her. Savoring her beauty. But she’s gone before you know it. Like a hummingbird. And you never see her again. People like Rachel enter and exit your life at the speed of light.

On the other hand you can never get rid of annoying people. They come into your life, annoy the hell out of you, and then stick around forever.

CHAPTER 35

M
IDNIGHT
. S
TILL NO
sign of Anna. No lights were on inside her house. Only the porch light burned.

I was tired. Bored. Ready for something to happen. I had been watching Anna’s house for close to nine hours, and the only person I had seen on her property during that time was the postal carrier.

I thought about getting some exercise. Maybe going for a walk. Not far. Just up Bluebird Street and back. I would still be able to keep an eye on Anna’s house.

Problem was, I didn’t want to leave my motorcycle unattended. There were two reasons for it. One was that somebody in the seedy neighborhood might try to steal it. Another was that Anna would probably pull up as soon as I was some distance down the street from my motorcycle. She would probably see me walking along the sidewalk, her foot would stomp on the accelerator, and her car would disappear into the night. Anna would be long gone by the time I got to my motorcycle.

I reached into my cooler and took out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. After I ate it I reached into the cooler again to get a plastic spoon and a Greek yogurt. Toasted coconut flavor. My favorite. I didn’t drink anything with my meal. I didn’t want to have to pee.

When I had finished eating I pulled out a disposable toothbrush and brushed my teeth. Plaque can be a real nightmare if you let it run wild.

In front of one of the houses a woman in a robe began to throw clothes on the lawn. Her husband burst out the front door and started to yell at her. The clothes were apparently his. The couple screamed at each other for quite some time.

Sometimes I wonder if anybody ever understands anybody else. I often think about the king in that parable about the poisoned well.

There was once a wise king who ruled over a great kingdom. One day a wizard entered the kingdom and poisoned the well from which all of the inhabitants drank. The following day the king did not drink from the well. But all of the other inhabitants did. And they all went mad. They started to believe that the king had gone mad, because his behavior was different than theirs. So they stormed the royal castle and demanded the king’s abdication. The king decided he needed to become as mad as everybody else. So he drank from the poisoned well. Right away he began to speak nonsense. The people rejoiced. Their beloved king had finally regained his reason.

CHAPTER 36

A
T ONE A
.
M
. I decided to break into Anna’s house. I had given up hope that she would return home, and I needed to find a clue to her whereabouts.

My eyes cased her house as I walked past it. I walked at a leisurely pace. Just a guy out for stroll. Nothing for the neighborhood watch group to be concerned about.

There was one large evergreen tree beside Anna’s front door. Two large evergreen trees would have been better—one on either side of the door. They would have concealed me from two directions. But there was only one tree, which was better than nothing.

None of Anna’s windows were cracked open. They might have been unlocked. They might not have been. Either way the front door seemed like my best option.

I eyed the porch. No doormat. No flower pot. No obvious place where Anna might have hidden a key.

Having a key to the front door would have made entry easier for me. But not by much. Because I had a bump key.

Bump keys are like master keys. They can open any almost lock into which they fit. Bump keys are easy to make. Easy to buy online. Locksmiths use them. Burglars use them. I use them sometimes too.

When I reached the end of Bluebird Street I turned around and began to walk back toward Anna’s house. I whistled soundlessly as I strolled down the dark street. Not a care in the world.

I stepped onto Anna’s porch. Moths fluttered around the porch light. I turned around, looked up the street, down the street. Nobody was watching.

I turned to the door again. Inserted my bump key into the lock. Pulled the key out one click. Turned it while striking its back with a screwdriver handle.

It made some noise.

The key turned. The knob turned. I was in.

I shut the door behind me. The place was in darkness. I took out my pocket flashlight and played its beam over the room. The interior of the house was nicer than the exterior. Which wasn’t saying much.

I did a quick search of the place. Nobody was there.

Anna kept her house neater than I would have expected. Her queen-size bed was made. No wrinkles. White spread tucked under the pillows. Holiday Inn towels lay folded in the closet. Cookbooks were stacked somewhat neatly in the kitchen. There were no dishes in the sink. No clothes on the floor. No clutter on the tables.

Anna seemed like the kind of woman I could cohabitate with—if I ever decided to do that again. Which was doubtful. Because living alone suited me.

Some of my former girlfriends never cleaned anything. I used to find keyboards dusted orange from Cheetos, microwave interiors spattered with salsa, crumbs kicked under the couch. It didn’t bother me that these girlfriends made messes, it bothered me that they never cleaned up after themselves. Which meant I had to. Because I couldn’t live like that.

On Anna’s refrigerator I found a slip of paper that listed her work hours. She worked the day shift at a restaurant called Munch Box. It was located in downtown Pottsland.

I knew where I would be eating my next lunch. I didn’t expect to find Anna working there. My hope was to find a clue to her whereabouts. I was pretty sure she had left town. Maybe for good.

I folded the slip of paper and put in my pocket. Then I looked around the house some more.

In a kitchen drawer I found a pile of greeting cards. Cards for every occasion. Congratulations, Get Well, Happy Birthday, Happy Holidays, Thank You. All of the cards were from a woman named Sara Garcia. Her address was stamped on each envelope. She lived in Pottsland.

Inside each greeting card Sara had written a personal note to Anna. I took a couple of minutes to read the notes. It was clear that Sara and Anna were close friends. Maybe best friends.

Sara Garcia.

I needed to pay her a visit.

CHAPTER 37

“G
RILLED CHICKEN SANDWICH
,” I said to the ponytailed waitress. “No mayonnaise. Honey mustard on the side.”

“Any side dishes? French fries, onion rings, baked potato?”

“Just the sandwich.”

“And to drink?”

“Glass of water.”

“Big spender, huh?”

“Only on tips.”

She hustled toward the kitchen to place my order.

A squat man with a toupee that looked like bowl haircut sat alone at the table beside me. His eyes never strayed from the newspaper he held as he ate.

“Anything interesting in there?” I said to him.

He kept his eyes on the paper as he spoke.

“Two stories,” he said. “First story, court rules that schools can ban American flag shirts.”

“Why would schools want to do that?”

“To avoid racial strife.”

“I see.”

“Second story, court rules that sexually explicit texts between a male teacher and a thirteen-year-old girl are protected speech.”

“Good thing he didn’t send her a photo of the American flag.”

My grilled chicken sandwich arrived. I bit into it. Chewing, I scanned the restaurant.

Munch Box was a nice place. White tablecloths. Crystal glasses. Scented candles. The waitresses probably made good tips.

At the front of the restaurant was a big window overlooking the parking lot. A sign in the window said
HELP WANTED
. I assumed they were looking to hire a waitress to replace Anna.

Across the room a shapeless woman forked greasy cheese fries from her plate and stuffed them into a mouth the size of a sinkhole. Then she slurped down half of a giant milkshake. I had to look away.

The restaurant manager walked past. His nails were manicured. His suit was immaculate. His barber was expensive.

“Excuse me,” I said to him.

“Yes sir?”

“I see you’re hiring.”

“Indeed we are.”

“What’s the position?”

“Waitress.”

Just as I had suspected.

“One of your waitresses quit?”

“Why do you inquire, sir?”

I wanted to find out what had happened to Anna, yet I didn’t want any of her friends or associates to know I was looking for her. The last thing I needed was for one of them to warn her that I was coming.

“No reason,” I said. “Just curious.”

The gleaming black shoes stepped away from my table.

I paid my bill, left a big tip.

On my way out the door I spoke to the ponytailed waitress.

“Seems like you’re understaffed here.”

“We had a waitress run out on us—literally.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s working here one day, she sees this car pull up, two guys in it, and she runs out the back door.”

“She ever come back?”

“Never.”

“The two guys, who were they?”

“Tweedledum and Tweedledee. How the hell should I know?”

“What’d they look like?”

“Two lowlifes.”

“Both wearing suits?”

“Yeah, how’d you know that?”

“Lucky guess.”