Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,83

has happened to Elmer, do you?”

“When’s the last time you saw him?” I ask.

“He drove me to Cincinnati for a doctor’s appointment a couple of months ago. We stopped for lunch on the way back. I bought him a burger and a shake.” He shrugs. “Didn’t know that would be the last time I saw him.”

When we’re back in the Explorer, Tomasetti says, “Elmer Moyer is not a missing person. He’s not in any of the databases. No warrants.”

“Record?”

“One conviction on misdemeanor drug charges two years ago. Possession of a controlled substance. Paid a fine. Did probation. No time served. Speeding ticket last summer.”

“So he’s not Scarface,” I say. “I guess the question now is: Did he leave of his own accord? Or did someone do away with him?”

Tomasetti takes it a step further. “Or is he somehow involved in the abduction?”

I think about that a moment. “Moyer used to date the waitress down at the diner. You hungry?”

“Frickin’ starved.”

CHAPTER 23

Ninety-five hours missing

Foley’s is more bar than diner and has Hard Times written all over its redbrick facade. It’s nestled between a parking lot riddled with knee-high yellow grass and a vacant space that was once Uhlman’s Department Store. I park the Explorer in the lot next to a pickup truck the size of a tank and we head inside.

The interior is a dimly lit, narrow space with booths to the right and, on the left, an ornate bar that’s probably as old as the building itself. The air smells of onions, week-old grease, and spilled beer—all of it infused with the redolence of decades-old cigarette smoke. Two men in brown duck coveralls sit at the bar, sipping beer, watching a TV tuned to cable news with the volume muted. A couple sits at a booth by the window. An old Crosby, Stills & Nash rocker blares from a jukebox in the corner. No one looks up when we walk in, so we make our way to the nearest booth and sit.

I’m thinking about Elsie Helmuth and the fateful trip that took her to Painters Mill seven years ago when a woman wearing snug jeans and a fuzzy purple sweater hustles up to the booth. “Evening, folks,” she says in a tough voice. “Can I get you something to drink?”

She’s tall and thin, with a face that had once been pretty. She’s a fast mover, a woman used to getting things done quickly and being on her feet for hours at a time. I’m betting she’s waitress, bartender, and manager and she’s probably run this place for quite some time.

“I’ll have a Killian’s Irish Red,” Tomasetti tells her.

“Same.” Before she can turn away, I ask, “Can you tell us where we can find Patty Lou?”

She spins, her gaze alternating between curiosity and caution. “You guys cops or what?”

Good eye, I think as I lay down my badge. “We’re looking for Elmer Moyer.”

She looks at my badge a moment too long, not reading, but getting her response in order. “What makes you think I know where he is?”

“You’re a friend of his.”

“Was. Past tense.” Her eyes scan the room, the bar, the booth. Checking on her customers. Making sure they have everything they need. Tips are important to her.

“He left, so I guess we’re not friends anymore,” she tells me.

I’m aware of Tomasetti settling against the seat back, letting me know this is my show. “When was that?” I ask.

“Little over two weeks ago.” She narrows eyes swathed with makeup that doesn’t quite conceal the shadows beneath them or the crow’s-feet at the corners. “What’d he do?”

“We’re just trying to find him.”

“Uh-huh. Right. And I’m here because I like the benefits. Give me a break.”

“How long were you friends?” I ask.

“Ten years, on and off.” She rethinks her answer. “Mostly on toward the end.”

“Can you tell us why he left?” I ask.

“Hell if I know. One minute he’s Mr. Let’s-Get-Married and the next he’s just fucking gone.” Her tough veneer cracks and for a split second I catch a glimpse of the woman beneath, the one who’d once been happy and hopeful for a future with a man she loved. “If you figure it out, let me know, will you? I’ll be back with your beers.” She turns and goes back to the bar.

“Sounds like she wasn’t expecting Mr. Perfect to skip town,” Tomasetti says.

I look at him. “What do you think?”

“I think I want to find Elmer Moyers.”

“Suspect? Witness? Victim?”

“All of the above, but I’m leaning toward witness.” He lifts