Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

“What about the ones dead or kidnapped?”

Hightower sighed. “It happens, but not often and not recently.”

“Annie Walsh has been missing two weeks.”

“Hell, she could be in Colorado skiing.”

“Or she could be dead.”

“True enough,” Hightower said. “But until we get a body or some other kind of evidence it just ain’t a priority.”

Stubbs grinned and stood. “Thanks, Sarge. It’s cops like you that keep guys like me in business.”

Hightower frowned, watched the private investigator shake his head as he left the police station.

Stubbs drove in ever-widening circles around the little college town. He wasn’t sight-seeing or getting the lay of the land although maybe that was a good idea. He simply thought better while driving. He hung one arm out the open window of the Dodge, let the cold blast him sharp in the face. It felt good.

He wasn’t thinking about how to go about his investigation. That was no problem. He just needed to find a thread, some kind of trail, then he’d keep following it until it led to Annie Walsh. Someone had seen or talked to the girl. Stubbs just needed to find out who.

How far could he string the Walshes along? Stubbs got paid by the day, and this wouldn’t be the first time he took a more or less straightforward case and stretched it out like he was searching for the Lindbergh baby. He figured he could feed the Walshes little tidbits of information every two or three days, who he’d interviewed, where he’d been. From their end it would look like he was doing a lot of work.

Okay, so what was the first stop? He checked his notepad, read the address for Annie’s apartment. Maybe the roommate would be home. A good place to start.

The girl was a stick figure, sickly pale, glasses thick. Lips fat and dark red. She looked at Stubbs through the door crack and over the chain. “Yeah?”

“I’m Deke Stubbs. Sorry to bother you. I’m a private investigator. Annie’s parents hired me to look for her. Can we talk?”

She unchained the door and opened it a bit wider, leaned against the door frame, looking up at Stubbs without any particular expectations.

Stubbs checked his notepad. “You’re Tiffany?”

“Just Tiff.”

“Sure. You mind if I come in?”

She thought about it a little too long, but then stepped aside. Stubbs walked in, looked the place over. Secondhand furniture, a futon couch, prints of classic paintings cheaply framed. The living room turned into the dining room with a small kitchen on the side.

“When was the last time you saw Annie?” he asked.

“I’ve already been through this with Annie’s mom,” she said. “All I know is she’s not here and rent’s due in a week.”

“Yeah, that’s a drag, but it would help. Really.”

“It was right after the start of school, about two weeks ago. Maybe a bit more, but I didn’t think much about it when I didn’t see her for a while.”

“Why’s that?”

“I didn’t say this to Annie’s mom, but in my opinion the girl was pretty much a slut. I’m sorry if that’s offensive.”

“I’m not offended.”

“When a girl has a different boyfriend one right after another, she’s a slut. So I hardly ever saw her sometimes. She’d stop in to check mail or change clothes or whatever, but she’d sleep out a lot of nights.”

“Do you have names for any of these guys?”

“It wasn’t any of my business, and I didn’t care and I didn’t want to know. Sometimes older men would come pick her up. You know what I mean by older.”

“It doesn’t sound like you liked her.”

“She was just a roommate.”

“Can I look in her room?”

Tiff shrugged. “It’s through there.”

She led him past a bathroom down a short hall, opened a door. A tiny bedroom. Clothes piled on the bed and behind the door. No pictures on the wall. Spartan.

Stubbs opened dresser drawers, pushed the clothes around. Nothing.

“What are you looking for?” Tiff acted like somebody who didn’t want to seem interested but was.

“I don’t know.” Stubbs looked under the bed. “Anything helpful.”

“She didn’t have a lot of stuff,” Tiff said. “All the furniture is mine.”

Stubbs circled to the other side of the bed. He’d tuned the girl out. He sat on the bed, ran his hands between the mattress and box spring. His fingers hit something.

“Can I get a glass of water?” He rubbed his throat. “Dust.”

“Sure.” She left.

Stubbs pulled out the book. It was a journal, fake-leather bound, lined blank pages like they had in most bookstores. He thumbed through it quickly. It was half journal and half poetry notebook. Some of the entries had dates. Many didn’t. He closed it and shoved it in his jacket pocket.

Tiff returned and gave him the water.

He gulped, smacked his lips. “Thanks.” He handed the glass back to her. “I guess that’s all. Nothing here.”

“Sorry.”

“Just routine. Had to give it a try.” He took a business card out of his wallet. “My number’s on here. Give me a ring if you hear from Annie or find out anything useful. Her folks are worried.”

“Okay.”

He gave her a final wave as he left the duplex. He slouched into the Dodge and pointed it toward a TGI Friday’s he’d seen on the way into town. He’d have a beer and go through the journal.

A thread, that was all he needed. The little start of a trail to follow.

Jenks, DelPrego, and Lancaster stood around the hood of DelPrego’s pickup in dreary silence. Jenks quietly puffed a Philly Blunt. They were parked in front of Jenks’s garage apartment. The neighborhood was still, most everyone at work or school.

DelPrego fingered one of the ragged bullet holes in the hood. “They shot my truck.”

They lapsed back into silence. Lancaster shifted from one foot to another.

Jenks sucked deep on the cigar, held the smoke in his lungs, then let it out in a long gray stream. He looked at DelPrego. “You ran me over, you dumbass.”

“Yeah.” DelPrego’s grin was a bit forced. “Sorry about that.”

“This is pointless,” Lancaster said abruptly. “Sherman, if you’re smart you’ll flush that stuff down the toilet and never think about it again.”

Jenks nodded, puffed, scratched his chin, and considered the gym bag still in the bed of the pickup. Lancaster was right, but Jenks just couldn’t bring himself to do it. A hundred grand of coke. There had to be a way he could turn a buck on the stuff. He might have to go to Tulsa to make some kind of deal or maybe OK City.

“I want to go home.” Lancaster looked pointedly at DelPrego.

DelPrego asked Jenks, “You need a ride anyplace? I’m going to take him.”

Jenks continued to stare straight ahead. “Go ahead. See you in class.”

DelPrego and Lancaster climbed into the pickup. DelPrego leaned out his window. His wide grin was genuine this time. “Cheer up, Sherm. We’ll think of something.”

That boy always thinks some shit is funny . Jenks fought down his own grin.

DelPrego backed out of the driveway, Jenks still staring at his shoes and absently smoking the cigar. The truck was already two blocks away and turning the corner when Jenks’s head snapped up. He ran after the truck, waved his arms. “Wait!”

They didn’t hear, kept driving.

The gym bag was still in the back of the pickup. Shit. Jenks flicked the stub of the cigar into the street. Anyway, he’d call Wayne. Tell him to bring the bag in, hide it in back of a closet or something and get it from him later.

He climbed the stairs to his apartment, unlocked the door, and went in.

Quick, strong hands grabbed him. A punch in the gut. Jenks coughed air, doubled over. The hands shoved him to the floor, and he landed hard.