The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,63
in here pretty regularly. Likes to bring her dates here. I went with a guy like that once. Every girl, the first time they went out, he took her to the same Applebee’s. I know because I was waitressing. I finally worked up the nerve to talk to him one night. Want to guess where he took me on our first date?”
“At least you got the employee discount,” Jem said.
Kristine laughed. “I never thought about it like that.”
“When was the last time you saw Joy in here?” Tean asked.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“What about a rough guess?”
“Not this week. I know that for sure. And—well, honestly, I don’t think I saw her last week either. It all runs together. Is she back in trouble?”
“Has she been in trouble before?”
Kristine flushed. “Oh, no. I just meant—nothing recent. But everybody’s got a past.”
“Is there something in particular you’re thinking of?”
“No.”
“Did she mention travel, friends, plans? Did she give you any clue that she might not be coming back here?”
“We only knew each other to say hi,” Kristine said. “Honestly, I thought she was just mad about the car.”
“What about her car?”
“We had to have it towed. Say, is it true you aren’t ever supposed to pick up a cat by the tail?”
“What?” Tean asked. “You definitely shouldn’t pick up a cat by the tail.”
“Where did you have it towed?” Jem asked.
“Perkins. It’s the only one in the valley, and we didn’t do it out of meanness. Company policy. If it’s in the lot more than twenty-four hours, we’ve got to have it towed. I don’t like it, but I’m the manager, and that means doing the stuff nobody else wants to do.”
“He knows all about that,” Jem said, clapping Tean on the shoulder. “He’s kind of a manager too.”
“Not really,” Tean said, trying to shrink out from under Jem’s touch.
“He’s hell on those people. Pure hell. You should see him go after them if he thinks they’re slacking.”
Kristine’s eyes had narrowed as she reconsidered Tean.
“Don’t even get him started about bathroom breaks.”
“I don’t—I’m not—they can use the bathroom whenever they want.”
“Sure,” Jem said. “That’s what he’s legally required to say.”
“Huh,” Kristine said, like she’d turned over a rock and found something slimy.
“Thanks for your time,” Tean said.
Kristine didn’t shake his hand when they left.
“I’m not anybody’s manager,” Tean said, jerking away from Jem as soon as they were out in the chilly May evening. “And I’m not—”
“God, just chill. I’ll be right back.”
He sprinted back into the Kneaders, catching Kristine at the counter. Jem was smiling, touching her arm, touching her shoulder, laughing, throwing worried looks at the door. Then the smiles faded. He hunched his shoulders. He tried again, whatever he was asking, and Kristine apologized profusely—Tean couldn’t hear her, but he could read the pantomime.
When Jem emerged, he said, “Damn. I thought she’d help me out because I have such an ass munch for a boss.”
“I’m not your boss. And I’m not an ass munch!”
“It’s a no on the security footage. She cited company policy: only with a warrant. Let’s try the tow yard.”
A quick search brought up Perkins Towing and Impound, which appeared to be the only tow yard in the valley, as Kristine had claimed. They drove south out of Heber, following US 40, and then they cut east past fields of scruffy alfalfa and acres of vines under floating row covers. Tean was pretty sure they were watermelons. Then the watermelons ended, and a wall of corrugated sheet metal began. When they got to the gate, PERKINS had been spray painted on rusting tin shingles. The gate stood open, and Tean guided the Ford into the tow yard.
Night had settled in, and the security floodlights illuminated the tow yard in patches. It looked like an impound lot had grown up around a small, 1960s home. Board-and-batten siding was painted canary yellow, the windows were trimmed in flaking white, and the whole structure was low and long, with only a slight bump to mark the gabled roof. Scraggly cheatgrass grew in clumps around the house, and someone had obviously tried, at one point, to plant roses, although now the bushes were dead and skeletal. In every direction, cars and trucks and minivans were parked. Some were obviously fresh victims, waiting for owners to come and claim them, but most of the collection spanned thirty years of design and manufacture. It wasn’t just cars, either. Among the trucks and vans stood electric ranges, refrigerators, even a six-foot plastic replica of