eye on her drink, not so much as glancing in his direction, when she said, “You’re Paige’s dad.”
“Wiley tell you?”
She shook her head, still not looking at him. “He didn’t say a word. Why did you come today?”
“To pay my respects.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Yeah, it is. But I am sorry for your loss.”
She didn’t react to or acknowledge that. “So why are you here?”
“My daughter is missing.”
The barmaid opened the can and plopped it in front of him.
Enid finally turned her head toward him. “Since when?”
“Since Aaron’s murder.”
“That’s can’t be a coincidence.”
“I agree.”
“Your daughter probably killed him and ran.”
Just like that. No emotion in her voice.
“Would it matter,” Simon said, “if I said I don’t think that’s the case?”
Enid made a maybe-yes, maybe-no gesture. “You gamble at all?”
“No.”
“Yeah, but you’re some big stockbroker or something, right?”
“I do financial advising.”
“Yeah, whatever. You still play the odds, right? Try to figure out what’s safe and what’s risky, all that?”
Simon nodded.
“So you know what the two most likely possibilities are, don’t you?”
“Tell me.”
“One, your daughter killed Aaron and is on the run.”
“And two?”
“Whoever killed Aaron took or killed her too.” Enid Corval took a sip of her drink. “Come to think of it, Possibility Two is much more likely.”
“What makes you say that?” Simon asked.
“Junkies aren’t great at not leaving clues or eluding the police.”
“So you don’t think she killed him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Let’s assume you’re right,” Simon said, trying to stay methodical here, detached. “Why would someone take Paige?”
“No clue. Hate to say this, but odds are, she’s dead.” She took another sip. “I’m still not sure why you’re here.”
“I’m hoping you know something.”
“I haven’t seen Aaron in months.”
“Do you recognize this guy?”
Simon handed her his phone. Elena Ramirez had texted him a photograph of her client’s missing son, Henry Thorpe.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Henry Thorpe. He’s from Chicago.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know him. Why?”
“He may be connected into this.”
“Into this how?”
“I don’t have a clue. It’s why I’m here. He’s missing.”
“Like Paige?”
“I guess.”
“Can’t help you, I’m afraid.”
A scowling biker with a shaved head pulled out the stool between them so he could lean on the bar. Simon noticed the black iron-cross tattoo and maybe a half swastika sticking out from under his shirt sleeve. The biker noticed him noticing and stared him hard in the eye. Simon stared back and felt the red start to rise.
“What are you looking at?” Biker Boy said.
Simon did not blink or move.
“I asked you—”
Enid said, “He’s with me.”
“Hey, Enid, I didn’t mean—”
“And you’re interrupting a private conversation.”
“I, I mean, how was I supposed to know?”
Biker Boy sounded scared.
“I was just getting some beers, Enid.”
“That’s fine. Gladys will bring them over to you. You wait over by the pool table.”
And with that, Biker Boy was gone.
“Enid,” Simon said.
“Yeah?”
“What is this place?”
“Private club.”
“Yours?”
“You here to ask about your daughter or about me?”
“I’m just trying to figure this all out.”
“What out?”
“Do you mind telling me about Aaron?”
“What about him?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Everything.”
“Can’t much see the purpose.”
“There are threads here,” he said, the words sounding weird coming from his mouth even to him. “Connections. I don’t know what they are, but I feel like I’m missing something. So I’m asking questions and plowing ahead and hoping.”
She frowned. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“My wife was shot yesterday,” Simon said.
Enid looked a question at him.
“She’s alive but…We were looking for Paige. Where they lived. Where Aaron was killed.”
He told her the story, taking chugs of the Pabst as he went along. Simon couldn’t remember the last time he drank a cold beer this early in the day, but today, in this place, it felt right. Simon glanced around the room as he spoke. Biker Boy wasn’t the only one with white supremacist tattoos. A number of guys had swastikas, and yeah he was outnumbered and he had bigger fish to fry at the moment, but this was America now, his country, this crap just out in the open and accepted, and he could feel his blood boil despite it all.
“You saw where Aaron grew up,” Enid said when he finished.
“On that farm.”
“It’s not really a farm. It’s a tourist spot, but yeah. Nice, right?”
“Seems so.”
“Seems so,” she repeated with a nod. “When Aaron was little, he lived in the actual inn. Back then, they only rented out six rooms. The family lived in the rest. Then they grew. Started renting out all ten rooms. Five, six years ago, we built those additions, so now