Rick Mofina - Six Seconds

“I just call the locals, make a request through the D.A. Countries have these things called international treaties and agreements.”

294 Rick Mofina

Sullivan began stroking his beard, taking inventory of the rigs on the lot, seeing nothing but his own des perate thoughts. Graham prodded him a bit.

“As I understand it, Mac, you know people who saw

Conlin and a woman in Bakersfield, or Las Vegas.” “Guys come in the shop and bullshit all the time.” “This is how you want to play things? I’m running out of time.”

Sullivan looked hard at Graham then swallowed. “I don’t know nothing about what he’s been doing since he left, you got that?”

“We’re clear on that. I’m sure that if I need to seize your phone and computer records, that will be con firmed.”

“Hold on, I’m cooperating.”

“Keep going.”

“Before he left, Jake came to me, swore me to secrecy, said his old lady had cheated on him when he was driving in Iraq and he was going to split with his boy and start over. He asked about selling or trading his rig and keeping it off the books.”

“Keeping it off the books?”

Sullivan shrugged. “Guess he didn’t want her chas ing him for support. Maybe he had another woman he was seeing, I don’t know.”

“Let me enlighten you. What Jake did was a parental abduction. He committed a crime. Now, you could be considered as a person who aided him in his offense.

Does that help you remember anything else?” “Son of a- What do you want from me?” “Did Jake Conlin sell or trade his truck?” “I believe he did a deal with Desert Truck Land.”

“Where’s that?”

“Las Vegas.”

“With who? I need a name there.”

Sullivan rubbed his chin.

“This doesn’t come from me?”

“A name.”

“Dixon. Spelled with an X, I think, I’m not sure.” “That a last name?”

“Yes.”

“And Dixon’s first?”

“Karl, I think.”

“Karl with a K?”

“I think so.”

“Karl with a K, Dixon with an X. Thank you.” “Tell me how in hell did you find out?”

“I don’t give up sources. Now, if Karl Dixon doesn’t exist, or if he should learn of my interest in advance, in any way, I’ll automatically request those warrants and note your role.”

“And if you get what you need?”

“You’ll never hear from me again.”

“Good.”

“Of course, I don’t speak for local law enforcement.” “Are you shittin’ me? I cooperated with you.” “Just a little something to keep in mind, if I need more help, Mac.”

Seattle, Washington

Samara’s concentration bounced from her printed Internet map, to the van’s GPS, then down the street. “There it is.”

She pointed for Jake, who was driving.

“I’m not blind.”

“I wasn’t implying you were.” She folded her papers.

“You’ve been so reticent. What’s troubling you?” “I’ve got a headache coming on,” he lied. And she knew it.

The strip mall came into view.

It was a plain, single-story square, sheltered by two tall madronas. It offered half a dozen glass storefronts: a nail salon, a pet shop, a check-cashing outlet, a res taurant, a chiropractor’s office and Samara’s objective:

Top Line Men’s amp; Women’s Alterations.

Earlier that week, Samara said she needed a break and wanted to get away. At the same time she’d con cluded that she didn’t have anything appropriate to wear for the papal visit and she pressed Jake to take her to Seattle. Top Line was known for designing and making the best handcrafted suits on the west coast. Rush orders were their specialty.

Given that he drove all over the country for a living, the prospect of a long jaunt from Cold Butte through the Rockies to Seattle and back on his time off didn’t appeal to Jake. But the trip to Seattle was not the real problem. His doubts about Samara, about what he’d done, were slowly eating away at him.

Samara was intent on going to Seattle and had offered to share the driving. She suggested they make a holiday weekend of it, see some sights, take in a ball game.

Logan jumped on that.

Anything to escape his boring prairie prison.

Jake was outvoted.

Samara made an appointment and they set off to journey through a time zone so she could get a tailormade suit.

Was the fuss about clothes a British thing?

What the hell, Jake shrugged it off. We’re talking about meeting the pope. And the school had sent out a notice re quiring children, families and staff to wear their “Sunday best” for the pope’s event in the school. They’d stayed at a motel last night. Got up early, and now, here they were.

“I’m just going in to be measured. You two wait at the restaurant. If I’m not out in forty-five minutes, come for me. Then we’ll spend the day seeing the sights. Go to Pike’s, then the game.”

“Sure,” Jake said.

Samara looked at him for a moment then left.

“Dad.” Logan’s attention was on the pet shop win dow. “Before we go to the restaurant, can we go to the pet store and look at the parrots?”

“Okay, pal.”

After the pet store, which reeked, Jake and Logan sat in a booth in the diner, where Logan drank chocolate milk and read the comics in the Seattle Times. Jake had coffee while pretending to read the sports pages.

The truth was he was wrestling with discontent that verged on resentment. The fire between Samara and him had cooled. She’d grown distant, preoccupied with work, her online correspondence courses, her late-night calls to her friends all over the world. Even on this trip, she’d devoted much of her time to her laptop, as if he and Logan weren’t there.

Peering into his coffee, he again questioned his deci sion to leave Maggie. Had he thought this deal through? What sort of future did they have with Samara?

He didn’t know.

“Dad, is it time for us to go get her?”

“Not yet, son, we just got here.”

Bells chimed over the transom when Samara en tered the shop.

A man in his forties was on the phone, behind the counter. A U.S. flag was pinned to the wall above the counter. The man was wearing a navy vest and a white shirt with rolled sleeves; a measuring tape was collared around his neck. He interrupted his call for his customer.

“I’m Samara,” she said. “I have an appointment.”

“Oh, yes. Please look around, I’ll be with you shortly. My daughter will help you. Jasim!”

A pretty young girl emerged from the back to guide her through the shop’s offerings. It was crammed, floor to ceiling with bolts of fabric, Egyptian cotton, Italian and British wools, cashmeres, silk charmeuse, chantilly lace. Samara flipped through sample books until the man ended his call.

“Apologies, Samara, I’m Benny.”

He was a master tailor, originally from London, where his father had created suits on Savile Row.

“I understand you were also born in London. I believe we have mutual friends.”

“That’s true. Our uncles know each other.”

As they shook hands, she noticed his sharp, brown eyes.

“You’d like us to create a suit for a very big occasion.”

“Yes.”

“A rush job, you said?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Not a problem. It’s my pleasure to help. Allow me to show you what I’ve started since your call.”

Benny opened a well-used notebook to show her sketches of a three-piece suit-a jacket, skirt and camisole ensemble.

“Simple understated elegance,” he said.

The jacket would have princess seams, and ribbontrimmed faux-flap pockets. The skirt would be cut below the knee, fully lined, with side zipper and ribbon detail. The camisole would be satin.