Lost. Helen R. Myers
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leather gloves she’d just tugged off, now that the car was secured on the bed of the wrecker. Swearing under her breath, she swept them up off the ground.
“Michaele, something’s going on in that busy head of yours. I want to know what it is. If you’ve seen or heard something—”
“It’s just a feeling.” She noted his blank expression. “Disappointed, huh? What did you think—I spotted something under the chassis? Maybe a message stuck there by bubble gum. Or how about the kidnapper’s wallet, complete with address and photo so you can head straight over to his house and arrest him?”
He did what she’d done to him: he remained silent and just waited.
“Nothing about what went on here was her idea,” she said quietly. “And what I said about kidnapping? Forget it. Anyone who knows us, knows it would break us to pay the most modest of ransoms.”
“I’m thinking more of some kid wanting the Firebird. Maybe he dropped her off a few miles away, then lost his nerve and dumped the car, too.”
“You mean someone connected with a chop shop?”
“I hope not. Those folks can be rougher on the driver than on a vehicle. It’s almost graduation, Mike. You know how the kids are at this stage. They gulp a few beers, they start to get stupid.”
“The purse I saw John take from the car—it’s hers. Can I check it? Maybe I’ll see something noteworthy.”
“Sorry. It’s been bagged.”
Just in case, that’s what it all boiled down to. They would even keep things from her if it suited them—just in case.
“This is crap,” she muttered, and, slapping the gloves against her thigh, she climbed into the cab of the tow truck.
12
5:25 a.m.
Checks and balances on a small-town level resulted in a longer wait than Michaele expected before she could actually leave with the Firebird, and it wasn’t all that much earlier than usual that morning when she finally unlocked the gated back lot at the garage and unloaded Faith’s car. Once that was done, she parked the roll-back up front beside the other tow truck. By then, Jared, who had been observing her from across the street, yielded his post to Jim Sutter, the other day-shift officer, and went inside. As she crossed the street to go to the café behind the station, she waved Jim inside, too.
“I’m just going to get myself a cup of coffee,” she told the youngest of Jared’s officers. “Everything’s taken care of.”
“Chief said to watch you until Buck’s up and behaving himself, Ms. Mike.”
“You let me worry about Buck—and Chief Morgan.”
“You bet. Then I’ll just enjoy the quiet out here a bit longer. Don’t pay me any mind.”
Resigned that the recent academy graduate feared Jared’s ire more than hers, she went to the café. On her way back, she thrust a bag with coffee and a breakfast burrito at the always-hungry cop, before crossing the street and unlocking the front door of the family business.
Not surprisingly, her father barely stirred as she entered. He’d always been a deep sleeper, and the drinking only made that worse. It was the fluorescent lights that finally did it. Once he spotted her, he launched himself straight into the bathroom.
When he reappeared, she had two coffees and his favorite breakfast—biscuits and sausage—on the counter ready for him.
“Come eat,” she said.
Instead, he reached for his hat where it had fallen behind the chair sometime during the night. Slapping it onto his head, he shot her a look steeped in animosity. Even from that distance, Michaele could tell he hadn’t bothered with mouthwash or the toothpaste she kept in there. The lack of air-conditioning intensified the odor.
“My back is killing me,” he snarled. “I should whip your ass for leaving me here all night.”
“You just need to put something in your stomach.”
“What is it?” Circling the counter, he lowered himself onto a stool with the caution of someone respectful of hemorrhoids. “My gut feels like it’s been scrubbed with steel wool. Can’t eat nothing spicy.”
Considering what he regularly primed his insides with, she didn’t doubt it. The only nonliquid she’d seen him ingest in the past twenty-four hours was a package of salty peanuts from the vending machine by the front door. “It’s mild sausage with just a little sage.”
“I hate sage.”
“I hate sage. You love it.”
He leaned closer and peered down at the biscuit and well-done pork patty, a perfect replica of what he liked to eat—when he did eat breakfast. “Looks like shit. I’ll go find something myself. Better yet, I’m going over to Eugene’s. A little hair of the dog’ll fix me right up.”
“No way.” Eugene Folsom ran the body shop directly behind them on Pine Street. He was also Buck’s source for liquor when he couldn’t get it anywhere else, but Eugene’s brew was homemade and lethal. “Forget it.”
Michaele grabbed a handful of Buck’s overalls as he started for the door. The force of his wrenching free sent her flying back into the soda vending machine.
Stifling a moan for the pain in her shoulder, she righted herself and tried again. “We need to talk, Buck.”
“Not in the mood. Jeez, the lights’re still on out there. Why’d you wake me so early?”
“It’s only fifteen minutes earlier than we usually get here—and there’s a reason. Will you please listen?”
Something in her expression must have gotten through to what was left of his functioning brain. With a groan he rubbed at his whiskered jowls. “Got a helluva headache.”
“Aspirin are in the bathroom. Take three, and then if you won’t brush, at least rinse your mouth with mouthwash. Please. Whether it’s a good idea or not, I’m afraid you’re going to be doing a lot of talking today, and that breath of yours could crack steel.”
“You shut your trap or I’ll—”
“Buck!”
Michaele hadn’t heard Jared approach, but there he was in the open doorway glaring at her father.
Buck dropped the arm raised to backhand her. “Hey, Chief. Whatcha know?”
“Michaele’s only trying to sober you up so you don’t make a bigger ass out of yourself than need be.”
“What did I—? Why’re y’all picking on me?”
Stepping closer, only to grimace as he got within reach of Buck’s breath, Jared replied, “I take it she hasn’t had a chance to tell you yet?”
“Tell me what?”
“Go pull yourself together. Rinse out your mouth, too. It’s time to start acting like the head of your family.”
More confused than offended, Buck shuffled toward the bathroom again. “Ain’t one of you making any sense. Wish y’all would just leave me be.”
As he shut the door, Michaele rubbed her sore shoulder, then started rewrapping the food. She knew better than to expect Buck to eat once he was told the news.
“It wouldn’t hurt if you took a bite of something,” Jared told her.
She didn’t want to argue about food. “Did you learn anything new at the station?”
“No. I was in the midst of debriefing everyone and setting up a new game plan for the day, when Buddy yelled that Buck was getting temperamental.”
“That wasn’t temperamental,