She's Not There - Madison Marla (книги без сокращений .txt) 📗

Hurrying around the block to Vinnie’s, she was glad to be back on a busy street. She didn’t think she’d been followed, but the sensation of being watched remained. Uneasy, she looked forward to meeting Jeff.

In Vinnie’s, the after-work crowd was starting to stagger home and the buffet table had been picked clean. TJ took a seat at the bar. Minutes later, Jeff walked in looking engineer-like in jeans and a dark-brown leather jacket over a white shirt open at the neck.

He sat down beside her. “How did the interview go?”

“The guy said no way the husband did it. Turns out the wife went at him with his own baseball bat, which explains the 911 call. The brother said he still hangs with the husband. Says the guy hasn’t even had a date since the wife disappeared, ‘cause he’s still waiting for her to come back. Chatted him up for a while. Didn’t get any lyin’ vibe from the guy. Have to talk to the husband, too, but he’s out of town now.”

Jeff turned to her. “For what it’s worth, I agree with Eric. You shouldn’t go on these interviews by yourself.”

“I hate it when someone starts out sayin’ for what it’s worth. Can always figure it’s gonna be something that’ll piss me off.”

“And did it?”

“Sorta. But right now I’m glad to see you.”

“Then I’ll try not to do it again.”

“Got the creeps walkin’ over to his apartment. Had a feeling someone was watching me.”

Jeff pondered for a minute. “Let’s forget the drink and go for a walk. See if anyone follows us.”

“You crazy? I don’t go looking for trouble. We’ll see what happens when we leave.”

24             

When Eddie got the money from Rita’s life insurance, the bar was still on the market. He hadn’t told anyone about the money and acted surprised when he found out about it. He even got another few thousand from her 401K he hadn’t planned on. Her death had been ruled accidental, Eddie’s negligence undetected. Things were going his way.

The purchase of the business went through and provided him with a comfortable income. Life was good again. He had enough money to drive a decent car, do a little gambling, and even thought about buying the duplex he lived in.

Then his gambling got out of control. He racked up some serious debt and had to take out a second mortgage on the bar. Life wasn’t as much fun with money worries thrown into the mix and his business jeopardized. Desperately trying to get out of the hole, Eddie let one of his bartenders go and began working longer hours.

One night at closing everyone had left except a man sitting at the end of the bar, staring into his beer. Eddie thought he’d seen the guy now and then, but didn’t remember ever talking to him. Eddie reminded him it was past closing and asked him to leave.

The man looked around nervously, making sure they were alone. “Do you know someone who could take care of my wife?”

Take care of his wife? Was she sick? It took a few seconds before it dawned on Eddie the guy wasn’t interested in healthcare. As a bartender, he heard and got asked just about everything—but this?

“You’re puttin’ me on, right?”

The guy stared at Eddie and shook his head. Before Eddie could tell the creep to leave, he leaned across the bar and whispered, “It’s worth seven grand to me.”

Christ, seven-fucking-grand! Here was an opportunity dropping into his lap but did he have the stones to take advantage of it? He had to stall the guy, give himself time to think, make sure the asshole was on the level.

“I may know someone,” Eddie replied cautiously, “but it’ll cost you ten.” Fuck, did I really say that? Eddie broke out in a cold sweat, hoping the guy didn’t notice his shaking hands. He quickly picked up a damp rag, wiping the already spotless bar. Ten grand would take care of his problem.

At first the guy just nodded at the price, then leaned across the bar again. In a loud voice, droplets of spittle landing on the gleaming bar, he raised his voice for the first time. “For ten, she’d better fucking disappear—and on the weekend I’m in Green Bay at the fucking bowling tournament!”

Eddie discovered not only could he do the deed, over the next few years he performed it repeatedly. Solicitation hadn’t been necessary. Each time, the opportunity just sort of happened. He found it amazing how many morons wanted their women out of their lives, overlooking the fact he’d been one of them.

Forty grand later, the bar was solid again. Eddie contained his gambling to an occasional poker game and weekly lottery ticket. Comfortable again, he started seeing the woman who delivered snacks to the bar every week. Doreen Wade was a good woman. A tall divorcee, with red hair and a wide grin, she had two kids, both over eighteen and living on their own.

On a Tuesday night, busy with the after-bowling crowd, Eddie went into the back room for a case of beer when he became aware someone had walked in behind him; a short, thin, weasely looking guy with patchy hair and beady eyes. Eddie recognized him as one of the losers he’d referred to the imaginary hit man. Shit, now what?

“What the fuck is going on?” the guy demanded. “Some bitch detective is nosing around asking questions about my wife’s disappearance!”

“I told you I have nothing to do with it,” Eddie snarled.

“But you know this guy, right?”

“Listen, asshole, I’m just the middle-man. The best thing you can do right now is shut the fuck up. Nothing goes back to you as far as I’m concerned. You need to keep your yap shut and forget about it.”

The guy looked doubtful, his lips curling. “I guess you’re right. But can you tell the guy someone’s asking questions?”

“I told you before I don’t even know the guy. I haven’t heard anything from him in a long time, and there’s no fuckin’ way to contact him. He’s probably long gone.”

The little man didn’t question Eddie about how he’d contacted the guy in the first place. His face set in a dark scowl, he shoved a white business card at Eddie. “It’s on you now, pal.” He turned and stepped back out into the bar.

Edgy, but feeling like he’d dodged a bullet, Eddie went back to the task of restocking beer. Later, when the drinkers had all left for home, he pulled out the card the guy had thrust at him. On it was the name of the detective who had been asking questions.

Teal J. Peacock. What the hell kind of name is that?

25             

TJ and Jeff finished their drinks, talked a bit, and left for the Mexican restaurant. They located the restaurant on a corner across from three other popular spots on the adjacent corners, in a neighborhood seedy except for the trendy shops and restaurants dotting the main streets.

Jeff drove past the restaurant, the street in front of it lined with cars. “I don’t like the looks of this neighborhood. I’ll drop you off and look for a parking place on a side street.”

“You’re such a pussy,” TJ scoffed. “I should drop you off!”

Jeff found a spot about halfway down a side street, dark, except for the low light coming from some of the houses. Glad TJ carried a gun, he thought maybe she was right—he was a pussy. At least if being cautious earned you that label. He’d never understood the popularity of restaurants located on their fringes.

The place was jammed. They put their name on a waiting list for dinner and went to the bar, filled with people drinking margaritas while waiting for their meal. Jeff squeezed up to the bar and ordered their drinks, while TJ excused herself, heading for the ladies room.

A tiny table by a window had just been vacated. He quickly took a seat, sipping the tart, icy drink. When Jamie’s car had turned up, he’d hit a new low. And the damn song repeated in his brain.