Why dig during the day? Why not wait until night? The noise, perhaps? The lights? Unusual activity could draw unwanted attention faster than if Mr. V just happened to be doing renovations. But why not use the vacant building to tunnel in from instead of essentially taking a man hostage? Maybe what they were after was closer to Mr. V’s shop? That made no sense either. Once they were in the building, they could go anywhere they wanted. Then again, why tunnel? Why not just break in?
None of the situation made any sense. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was getting Mr. V safely back to his family. If he were being held hostage —
I stopped at the entrance to the café and considered the magnitude of fear I’d felt radiating out of him. It was one thing to be afraid for your life, but could Mr. V’s entire family be at risk? Were his wife and kids hostages, too?
I had to report my suspicions, but what if a cop started poking around and got Mr. V killed? Or worse, his entire family? The situation demanded delicacy. A cavalry galloping to the rescue with lights flashing and guns blazing was not the answer. Sadly, I didn’t know what was.
A blast of arctic air urged me inside. I stepped into the gentle roar of a full house, and my gaze instantly shot to Reyes. His back was to me. Probably a good thing since I couldn’t think clearly when I looked at his face. Or his shoulders. Or his thick, unkempt hair.
I took out the money Mr. V gave me and headed toward the register to ring it in. Sweet Mr. V and his lovely family. Who could I go to with this? I needed someone high up in the law enforcement food chain, like a detective or even the police chief. I’d gotten to know a couple of the cops, but again, the situation demanded kid gloves, not boxing gloves, and the cops I’d met so far did not inspire that kind of confidence.
But that brought me to problem number two: What would I tell the person I did go to? I saw these Middle Eastern guys and got a bad feeling? Racist much?
I glanced at Garrett as I walked by and considered asking him. He did something coplike, though I wasn’t sure what. There was Mr. Pettigrew as well. He was a former detective. Maybe I could talk to him, but again, what would I tell him? And how much could I count on him what with that demon lurking in his innards?
I spotted Cookie looking at me with a huge smile on her face. An appreciative smile. Like a really big one. I slowed as she walked toward me. Her arms opened, and I half expected her to plant a big wet one on me. Instead, she planted one on her husband, which made more sense. He’d walked in right behind me.
“Hi, Janey,” he said when Cookie stopped accosting him. Weren’t there laws against X-rated PDA?
Robert, or Bobert as I liked to call him, but that was Cookie’s fault, had warm eyes and a charming, full-mustached smile. He seemed to like me almost as much as Cookie did. They were always inviting me over for dinner or to a movie. At first, I found their enthusiasm a bit intimidating. But once I got to know them – and realized they weren’t swingers – I was grateful for it. They were a grounding force in my antigravitational life. A cord that kept me tethered to earth.
“Hey, Bobert. How’s it hanging?”
“Little to the left. You?”
He pulled me into a giant bear hug, swallowing me in his arms. It felt wonderful despite our conversation about the trajectory of his manly parts. Some might have seen that as awkward.
I had a thing for awkward.
“Same,” I said when he released me. “Your wife tried to service another customer today.”
He glanced at Cookie, his expression sympathetic. Her cheeks flushed a soft pink. They’d only been married a couple of months and were the cutest newlyweds on the planet. I was certain of it. Especially Bobert. To be so old, so elderly and decrepit, practically on his last legs, to find love where he least expected it, at a rave in the Mohave. At least that was what Cookie told me. She’d been lying when she said it, though. If she lied about meeting her future husband at