jeans. He was the right age, I thought, about forty, but clean-shaven. Still, I watched him carefully. It was possible Brad had shaved the goatee that Ted had mentioned, and it was possible that he was dressed up for a reason. Maybe meeting a new client. Maybe waiting on a date. He caught me looking at him, raised an eyebrow in my direction, and lifted his pint glass of beer. I stared at my phone to discourage him from coming over. I had decided it probably wasn’t Brad. He was seated close enough for me to see the softness of his hands, and the frosted tips of his hair, and unless Brad was a criminal mastermind who had entirely changed his appearance, I doubted it was he. I paid my bill with cash and tottered out of Cooley’s on the high heels I wasn’t used to wearing.
“Don’t leave on my account,” said blue blazer as I walked past him.
I turned and appraised him. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Chris.”
“Chris, where do you work?”
He seemed a little confused by my line of questioning, but answered me. “I’m manager at the Banana Republic over in Kittery. Do I know you?”
“No,” I said. “I was just curious. Have a nice night, Chris.” I continued on my way out of the bar.
Outside, the gusting rain from earlier had tapered to a steady drizzle. The wind direction had changed, and even though the ocean was just over the road the air smelled of pine trees and fresh dirt. Straddling two parking spots, a pickup truck idled, its driver-side window rolled down. Walking past it, I caught the smell of cigarette smoke in the damp air. I got to my car and fiddled for a while with my purse, hoping that the driver of the truck would finish his cigarette and get out so I could get a look at him. Just as I pulled the keys out of my purse, the truck’s engine cut out, and I turned and watched the graceful arc of the cigarette butt as it traversed the parking lot, landing in a puddle with an audible fizz. A tall man got out of the truck. He was illuminated by an exterior mounted light on the edge of Cooley’s. He had dark hair, and wide shoulders, and when he turned to shut the truck’s door I could clearly see his dark goatee. It had to be Brad.
I had no intention of following him back into Cooley’s. “Brad,” I said, and he raised his head to look at me. Even in the dim parking lot lighting, I could see that his eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, and that he had the jittery, ghostly look of a man who had done something very bad.
“Me?” he said.
“You’re Brad, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Brad Daggett?”
“Yeah.” He took a quick covert glance around the parking lot, maybe looking for the SWAT team poised to take him down if he made a sudden movement.
“Can we talk for a moment? Out here? It’s important.”
“Okay, sure. Do I know you?”
“No,” I said. “But we have friends in common. I know Ted and Miranda Severson very well. Look, it’s wet and cold out here. Can we sit in my car and talk, or else we can sit in your truck, if you’d feel more comfortable.”
Again, he looked around the parking lot. I knew his mind must be working on overtime, wondering who I could possibly be and what I could possibly want. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I said, making my voice sound as soothing as possible. “Why don’t we sit in your truck?”
“Okay, sure,” he said, and opened his door. I took the three steps across the wet parking lot and opened the passenger-side door. Before getting in, I unzipped my purse. Resting near the top was a six-inch stun gun designed to look like a flashlight. I didn’t think I would need to use it, but I wanted to be careful. I had no idea how Brad was reacting to the fact that he’d murdered a man in cold blood less than a week ago, but I had to assume he was jumpy and paranoid, and possibly dangerous.
“So you know the Seversons?” Brad said, after we were both in the truck, with what sounded like forced casualness. The truck’s interior was spotlessly neat, smelling of cigarette smoke and Armor All.
“Yes,” I said. “Well, I knew Ted Severson, and I know Miranda.”